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EIGHT LANDS IN EIGHT WEEKS 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/eightlandsineighOOsnyd 



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Old Building in Coxey Street. 

From an old print. 



Eight Lands in Eight Weeks.) — Frontis 



EIGHT LANDS 
IN EIGHT WEEKS 

A PACKAGE OF DIARY LETTERS 

TO 

BELOVED STAY-AT-HOMES 

FROM 

MARCIA PENFIELD SNYDER 

With a few Sketches and Letter Heads by the 
Writer, the Lady in Green, and M. B. W. 




BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 

835 Broadway, New York 

BRANCH OFFICES: CHICAGO. WASHINGTON. BALTIMORE. 
ATLANTA, NORFOLK, DES MOINES, IOWA 






<L 



& 



Copyright, 191 1, 
By 

MARCIA P. SNYDER 






'CI.A207789 



*? 



DEDICATION. 

To my unfailing helpmeet 

On the journey and with the pen- 

The Lady in Green. 



THE ITINERARY 

Friday, June 25, leave Montreal. 

Friday or Saturday, July 2 or 3, arrive in Liverpool. 

Saturday, 3, to Chester. 

Sunday, 4, Chester. 

Monday, 5, to Windermere, coach to Keswick, to Edin- 
burgh. 

6 to 7, Edinburgh. 

Thursday, 8, via Abbotsford and Melrose to Durham. 

Friday, 9, via York to Stratford. 

Saturday, 10, Stratford, coach to Kenilworth, to War- 
wick. 

Sunday, II, Stratford. 

Monday, 12, via Oxford to London. 

13 to 16, London. 

Saturday, 17, to Canterbury. 

Sunday, 18, Canterbury. 

Monday, 19, to Dover, Calais, and Amiens. 

Tuesday, 20, via Beauvais to Paris. 

21 to 25, Paris, Exc. to Versailles. 

Monday, 26, to Brussels. 

Tuesday, 27, to Amsterdam. 

28 to 29, Amsterdam, Exc. to Monnickendam. 

Thursday, 29, to the Hague, Exc. to Scheveningen. 

Friday, 30, to Antwerp. 

Saturday, 31, via Aix to Cologne. 

Sunday, August 1, Cologne. 

Monday, 2, The Rhine to Mayence and Worms. 

Tuesday, 3, to Heidelberg. 

Wednesday, 4, via Stuttgart to Lucerne. 

Thursday, 5, via Bern and Lake Thun to Interlaken. 

Friday, 6, Interlaken, Exc. to Lauterbrunnen and 
Muerren. 

Saturday, 7, to Lucerne, Exc. on Lake or Drive Axen- 
strasse. 

Sunday, 8, Lucerne. 

Monday, 9, via St. Gotthard R. R. to Lugano and Milan. 

Tuesday, 10, Milan. 

Wednesday, 11, to Venice. 

12 to 13, Venice. 
Saturday, 14, to Florence. 

15 to 18, Florence. 

Thursday, 19, to Rome. 

20 to 23, Rome. 
Tuesday, 24, to Naples. 

25 to 27, Naples, Pompeii, Amain Drive. 




Gad 

Gen, xxxJL 

CONTENTS 

Foreword 9 

PART I. OUTWARD BOUND 

I. On the Train. Travellers to 

Fairyland 13 

II. On the Big River. A Shortened 
Sea Voyage. River Craft. Que- 
bec 16 

III. On Salt Water. New Brunswick 

Shores. An Ocean Steamer . . 22 

IV. A Sunday at Sea. Bread for Soul 

and for Body. The Evening 

Promenade ,28 

1 



CONTENTS 



V. The Eight. Higher Criticism. . 31 
VI. Below Deck. An Eventless Pas- 
sage. Staterooms and Steward- 
ess. "Tummy." Waiters and 
Fees. Ship's Officers . . . . 37 
VII. A Gray Day. Preventives of Mai 

de Mer. A Song of a Choppy Sea. 43 
VIII. The Desired Haven. Such Busy 
Days ! A New Earth. Chart and 
Log. Dimensions 46 

PART II. ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND 

IX. Liverpool to Chester. Foundation 
Facts. Ocean Lines. Two Liver- 
pool Cabs. Thatches and Hedge- 
rows. The Charm of Old Chester. 

First Episode 53 

X. A Glorious Fourth. Old Glory 
and the Union Jack. A Roman 
Camp. Rows, and Timbered 
Houses. A Walk upon the Walls. 
The Miller of the Dee. St. 
John's among the Ruins. A 
Typical Cathedral 58 

XI. Coaching Among the Lakes. 
Meres and Tarns. Fells, Pikes, 
and Scars. The Lake Poets. 
Wordsworth's Homes. A Scar- 
let-coated Coachman. A Lost 
Lunch. New-found Friends. The 

Daffodils 65 

XII. Auld Reekie. Situation and To- 
pography. The Ridges. Castle 



CONTENTS 



Rock. High Street to Holyrood 
Palace. Princes Street and the 
Monuments. A Veteran Guide . 71 

XIII. A Cup of Kindness. The Crowned 

Church of St. Giles. The Queen's 
Drive. Salisbury Craigs and Ar- 
thur's Seat. Scotch Hospitality. 
Excursions that might have been. 78 

XIV. Melrose and Abbotsford. Pic- 

ture Postals. A Strain on the 
Imagination. Flowery Railway 
Stations. Abbey Ruins. The 
Home of a Great Author ... 84 

XV. Durham on its Hill. Christian 
Missions to Northumbria. Bishop 
Paulinus and King Edwy. St. 
Cuthbert's Tomb. A Model Third- 
class coach. Desolate Street in 
Newcastle. The Lady in Green 
has her innings. A Delightful 
Verger. York and its Minster. 
Across Country. How to see a 
Cathedral. "The 'Ouse of 'Ouses." 97 

X;VI. The Shakespeare Region. A Dis- 
jointed Journey. At the Warwick 
Arms. An Auto-bus to Strat- 
ford. Birthplaces and Burial 
Places. Warwick Castle and its 
Historic bric-a-brac. Kenilworth 
and its Ivied Ruins. A Brain 
Rest at Leamington . . . .111 
XVII. Mother of Men. Crowded Oxford 
Colleges and their Personnel. 
Quadrangles. Vespers at New 



CONTENTS 



College. A Famous Dining-hall 
and Kitchen 119 

XVIII. The World's Metropolis. Fa- 
miliar Names. Divided Labors. 
A Morning's Program. In the 
Great Galleries. Westminster and 
St. Paul's. On the Thames. New 
Gardens and Hampton Court. On 
Westminster Bridge. Colossal 
Skipping 126 

XIX. Pilgrims to Canterbury. The 
Great Highway. St. Augustine. 
Thomas a Becket. Chaucer's 
Pilgrims. Dane John. Mercery 
Lane, and Christ Church Gate. A 
Cathedral of Slow Growth. The 
Black Prince. Henry IV. . . 133 
XX. The Communion of Saints. St. 
Martin's in the Fields. Early 
Communion. Bell Harry. The 
Norman Staircase. This Eng- 
land. Voice Production. 
Flowers. Guides. Lark, Robin, 
and Nightingale 143 

PART III. FRANCE 

XXI. Across the Channel. Prepared 
for the Best. From the Car Win- 
dow. A Provincial Inn. Growth 
in Walled Cities. The Cathedral 
of St. Firmin. Gothic Portals. 
Ruskin's "Bible of Amiens." 
Peter the Hermit . . . . .153 

4 



CONTENTS 



XXII. Beauvais. Cathedrals, and Cathe- 
dral Towns. A Crippled Giant. 
Marvellous Windows. A Mar- 
vellous Clock 165 

XXIII. Paris Begun. Historical Outline. 

Topography. Means of Convey- 
ance. A Tour through the North 
Side. La Cite. Notre Dame. 
Sainte Chapelle. Under the 
Bridges 172 

XXIV. Paris, South Side. Versailles 

versus Fontainebleau. The Latin 
Quarter. The Sorbonne. The 
Pantheon. The Museum of 
Cluny. A Parisian Restaurant. 
The Luxembourg Gallery and 
Gardens. The Tomb of Napoleon. 

The Eiffel Tower 186 

XXV. Paris Art, Work, and Worship. 
Secularized Churches and Con- 
vents. Republican Traits. Apart- 
ment Stores. A Talk on Paint- 
ing. Beasts and Angels . . . 195 
XXVI. Last Days in Paris. Gobelin 
Tapestries. Bois de Boulogne. 
Jardin des Plantes. One More 
Visit to the Louvre. Sculptured 
Gods and Men. Sunday Attrac- 
tions. A Modern Altar Piece. 
Paris the Empress 207 

PART IV. BELGIUM AND HOLLAND 

XXVII. Brussels Point. Belgium and Hol- 
land, the Lands and their Vicis- 

5 



CONTENTS 



situdes. A Hurried Leavetaking. 
Lace and Lacemakers. A Night 
during Kirmess. Faithful Dogs . 219 

XXVIII. The Land of the Dutch. Dikes 
and Polders. The Great Gates. 
Amsterdam and its Canals. Lan- 
guage, Customs, and Dress. The 
Ryks Museum. Dutch Love of 
Portraiture. Rembrandt and Les- 
ser Lights. Collection of Cos- 
tumes 224 

XXIX. Excursions from Amsterdam. A 
Boat-ride to Zaandam. Peter the 
Great. Quaint Little Cities. The 
Hague. The Binnenhof and its 
Memories. Great Names in Hol- 
land. The Picture Gallery and its 
Masterpieces. Scheveningen by 
the North Sea 234 

XXX. From Antwerp to Aix. A Few 
Points of History and of Con- 
trast. Antwerp in a Rain. The 
Seven Aisled Cathedral. Rubens 
at his Best. Quinten Matsys' 
Wellcurb. Crossing the German 
Frontier. Wurst and Schwarz- 
brod 241 

PART V. THE RHINE 

XXXI. The City of Charlemagne. Fras- 
trada's Jewel. Charlemagne in 
Italy. Morning Mass in the Min- 
ster. Tomb and Relics. Tie Eli- 
6 



CONTENTS 



XXXII. 



261 



XXXIII. 



senbrunnen. Saint Charlemagne. 
Father Rhine 251 

Cologne. Churches Many. The 
Vast Cathedral. Climbing to the 
Galleries. Saints in Stone. Arch- 
bishop Conrad. St. Helena and 
her Treasures. The "Mayflower" 
of the Middle Ages. Roman- 
esque Churches. The Cloverleaf 
Apse. A Golden Statue . 

A High Day on the Rhine. Ger- 
many in a Suitcase. States, Gov- 
ernment, Rivers, and Forests. 
Excitement on the River. Cardi- 
nals and Counts. A Dirigible 
Overhead. Kaleidoscopic Views. 
Castles and Legends. Terraced 
Vineyards. A Vision of Eyes. A 
Song of the Rhine .... 

Evening and Morning in May- 
ence. The Gray Minster. Ro- 
man Capitals. St. Boniface and 
Archbishops. Medieval Leagues. 
Parks, Avenues, Fountains. A 
Study of the Romanesque. Cher- 
ries for Breakfast 291 

Heidelberg. The Crown of the 
Palatinate. Tie River Neckar be- 
tween its Hills. In the Castle 
Grounds. Moats and Gates. 
Court and Well. Fagades and 
Towers. The Veterans' Gallery, 
The Big Tun. Under the Altan. 
An Open-air Concert. An Illumi- 
nation 299 



XXXIV. 



275 



XXXV. 



CONTENTS 



XXXVI. Old Friends in Svvabia. The 
Grandduchy of Baden. Cities and 
Cathedrals of the Upper Rhine. 
Stuttgart on its Hills. A German 
Kaffee Klatsch. Swabia and its 
Emperors. An Edge of the Black 
Forest. Vanished Saints. The 
Falls of the Rhine 315 

PART VI. SWITZERLAND 



XXXVII. On Lake Thun. Switzerland in 
One Hand. Swiss Passes. The 
Confederacy and its Cantons. A 
Glance at Zurich. Lake Thun by 
Sunset. A Sudden Vision . . 327 

XXXVIII. Interlaken. Travellers' Leisure. 
Shop Windows. The In's and 
Out's of the Valley. Precipices 
and Waterfalls. The Climb to 
Miirren. In the Lap of Flora. 
Mountain Giants 334 

XXXIX. A Cul de Sac and How to Escape 

From It 345 

XL. Sabbath Rest by Lake Lucerne. 
Under a Veil. The William Tell 
Region. Glacier Gardens. Thor- 
waldsen's Lion. With Old 
Friends. Chalets. Herd Bells. 
Yodels. Winter Resorts . . . 347 

XLI. The Great White Wall, and its 
Turnstiles. Marvels of En- 
gineering. Italian Landscape. 
Lombardy and the Lakes . . . 356 
' S 



CONTENTS 



XLII. Milano la Grande. The Soft 
Italian Tongue, and Others' 
Tongues. The Marble Cathedral. 
San Carlo Borromeo. Gian Gale- 
ozzo. The Visconti and Sforza. 
Napoleon's Fagade. The Gal- 
leria. Statue of Leonardo. The 
Brera. Roman Pillars. The Ba- 
silica of St. Ambrose. The Iron 
Crown of Lombardy. St. Au- 
gustine and the Te Deum. The 
Great "Last Supper" .... 365 

XLIII. Through Lombardy to Venice. 
Boulevards and Station Park. A 
Review of Milanese History. A 
Lesson in Italian Pronunciation. 
Passing Verona. Dietrich of 
Bern. The Scaligers. Padua, and 
San Antonio. In the City of the 
Doges. Our First Gondola. A 
Song of Lombardy .... 384 

XLIV. The Bride of the Adriatic. 
Waterways and Alleys. Piazza 
San Marco by Electric Light. 
Topography. Shop Windows. 
Venetian Sails. Growth of the 
Island City. Blind Dandolo. 
Fine Arts of the Middle Ages. 
San Marco. The Travelled 
Horses. The Grand Canal . . 393 
XLV. Venetian Art. Doge's Palace. Ve- 
netian Painters. The Bellinis, 
Tintoretto, Veronese, Titian. The 
Academy. The Presentation in 
the Temple and the Assumption. 



CONTENTS 



Canova and His Tomb. Tombs 
of the Doges. Palma Vecchio's 
Sta. Barbara. The Rialto. The 
Black Shawl 409 

XLVI. Over the Apennines. Bologna, 
and the Eclectics. Tunnels and 
Gorges. The City of the Flowery- 
Field. Our Florence Program. 
Great Names from Dante to Ga- 
lileo. Living in a Villa. The 
Heated Term. Italian Gothic . 421 

XLVII. Church Going in Florence. The 
Arno and its Bridges. Piazza 
della Signoria, Santa Croce and 
its Tombs. The Cathedral and 
Brunelleschi's Dome. The Bap- 
tistery, its Doors and its Babies . 432 

XLVIII. Florentine Art. San Miniato and 
the Cemetery. Fiesole, its Ba- 
silica and Roman Theater. Fres- 
coes and Altar Pieces. Michael 
Angelo's Sculpture .... 441 

XLIX. Firenze la Bella. The Ufnzi and 
Pitti Galleries. The Bargello. 
Convent of San Marco. Fra 
Angelico and Savonarola . . . 449 

L. From Florence to Rome. The 
Three Routes. Pisa and its Mar- 
ble Wonders. Sienna and its 
Tower. Etruscan Hill Towns. 
Lake Trasimenus and Hannibal. 
Passing Perugia and Assisi. Or- 
vieto and its Polychrome Fagade. 
Reforesting. The Laughing Vine 455 
10 



CONTENTS 



LI. The Niobe of Nations. Great 
Eras in Roman History. The 
Seven Hills. The Walls. The 
Forum. Downfall of Little Italy. 
Assigning Our Tasks. The Col- 
osseum. The Pantheon . . . 465 
LIL The Mother of Churches. Rome 
of the Popes. The Seven Pil- 
grimage Churches. St. Peter's 
and the Piazza. The Obelisk. 
The Vatican. Galleries of Sculp- 
ture. Sistine Chapel. Picture 
Gallery. St. Mary Major. St. 
Paul's outside the Walls. Things 
Unseen. A Composite Picture . 481 

LIII. On the Home Stretch. Travel- 
lers' Beatitudes. Roman Aque- 
ducts. The Sabine and Albine 
Mountains. Preneste. Monte 
Cassino. St. Benedict and St. 
Thomas Aquinas. The Suit Cases 
Speak. See Naples and Part . 495 

LIV. See Naples and Die. Vicissitudes 
of Southern Italy. The Lay of 
the Land. Life in the Streets. 
Bassi. Fascination of Neapolitan 
Coloring. Trips for a Touring 
Car. Capri. The Blue Grotto. 
The Precipice Road to Anacapri. 502 
LV. Pompeii. A Dead City and its 
Story of the Past. A Song of 
Naples 516 

LVI. On the Wharf. Gad and Ichabod. 520 
11 




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FOREWORD. 



Eight Lands in Eight Weeks ! Does that sound to 
you like a monstrous proposition? And if I cap it 
with Eight Women, do I multiply the difficulties, or 
reduce them to a minimum? Is the whole thing 
feasible, according to your judgment, or just absurd 
enough to be alluring? And are you minded to con- 
tribute the fourth dimension of a stay-at-home con- 
tingent that will share our labors and double our 
gains? 

The journey is such as might chance to any one of 
you in a summer vacation — a strenuous pilgrimage 
over seas, from Liverpool to Naples, worshiping at all 
the greatest shrines of scenery, art, and history, and 
absorbing, in general, as much of Europe as is com- 
patible with sound health and the retention of one's 
faculties. 

The eight are sober-minded women, like yourselves 
or your mothers and sisters, who, having done big 
stunts at everyday work throughout the year, and hav- 
ing planned some innocent midsummer outings, find 

9 



FOREWORD 



themselves suddenly caught up on the wings of cir- 
cumstance, like Ganymede and the Eagle, and bidden 
forget their sheep and lift up their eyes because they 
are on the airy way to dine with gods on Olympus. 

Now the telling of this tale is just for the satisfac- 
tion of you and of me. A long-inculcated habit of 
politeness causes me to give this order to the pro- 
nouns; but candor would have reversed it. You may 
have heard the story of our dear old friend who said 
to us one day : "You were not at the prayer meeting 
last evening? Well, we had an excellent meeting, an 
excellent meeting. I occupied the time largely 
myself." 

Therefore, to you who may elect to join this com- 
pany of happy dames, we offer hearty welcome ; and 
to you who feel that this foreword is all that you care 
to know of us and our achievements, we say : "By all 
means close our book at this point and occupy the 
time largely yourselves." For these letters are writ- 
ten to 

You who anticipate, 
You who regret, and 

You who love to remember. 

M. P. S. 



10 



PART I— OUTWARD BOUND. 



Eight Lands in Eight Weeks 



I_ON THE TRAIN. 




Dearly beloved: 

Behold us embarked for Fairyland, and we a match- 
less seven ! Before the day is over we expect to out- 
perfect the perfect, and number eight ; eight happy, 
congenial souls, and all bound for Fairyland. 

Just now it looks like every-day traveling on an 
every-day train, and none too good at that. The rail- 
way seats, cherry and plush, are worn in the using; 
the windows, not over clean, show us a panorama of 
familiar fields and sandbanks, sluggish streams with 
willows bending over; farm buildings in white and 
grey, happed well about with apple orchards ; big elm 
trees here and there, agog to see what it's all about ; 
and meadows streaked with the gold of buttercups. 
Very much like home, you will say ; and yet this is 
the car to Fairyland, and we are the favored children 
of the fairy godmother. Dust may blow and storms 
may rage, we may fall into discontent with train and 

13 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



with steamship, and into vile seasickness to boot, but 
this is the road to Fairyland, and we are the blessed 
wayfarers. 

Aren't you a little sorry for the people who have 
grown up in it and never have a chance for a first 
glimpse in at the gate? There are those of our own 
land, so they say, who have crossed the lordly ocean 
until it is only the blue black pond ; who have stared 
the novelty clean out of Nature's wonder-book, and 
who think it fine to have indifferent thoughts and 
slighting words for what lies across the sea. Such 
have no concern with these letters of mine. I am writ- 
ing to you, beloved, whose American upbringing has 
fitted you to understand the difference between our 
new world, lovely and fresh from the hand of the 
Creator, and an old world steeped in history and art; 
to you, who would always tread with reverence, be it 
the first time or the fifth, the streets where a Csesar 
walked and a Virgil chatted with his friends ; to you, 
who have the imagination and the soul to gather with 
the bold barons of seven centuries ago on the fields of 
Runnimede, to build iron well-sweeps with Quinten 
Matsys, and study singing choirs with Van Eyck. For 
it takes soul, even more than eyes, to see Fairyland ; 
and we partners are looking at one another somewhat 
quizzically at our starting out, wondering which of us 
will be myopic, and which will pick up a pair of fairy 
spectacles. 

At home there is nothing older, of historic interest, 
than about four centuries. Across the water we shall 
touch hands with men and women of millenniums gone 
by. At home we are wrestling with the problems of 
a young civilization ; yonder we may watch the evo- 
lution of our pet principles and the growth of charac- 
ter, not in some heroine of fiction, but in a queen of 
nations. At home we are studying art and learning 

x 4 



EIGHT WEEKS 



to apply it; over there it is a part of the mental bread 
and butter. At home we rejoice in sweet wild woods 
and rolling prairies, in Niagaras and Grand Canons; 
but in the countries toward which we are turning every 
mountain has its association with wondering souls, 
every river carries boat loads of stories down to the 
sea ; the city walls have their tales, and instead of shut- 
ting you in, they set you to dreaming of distant hori- 
zons. Fairyland, my friends ; Fairyland, if you have 
the child's heart and the child's wondering eyes. If 
not, there's a better land than this where, it has been 
said, you will have trouble even to enter in. 

But here is a sound of ''Montreal" called beside the 
windows, and just in time to bring my letter-sermon 
to a close, and to teach me how to take my first step 
into Fairyland. 

Yours, with good hopes and good wishes. 

■M. 



15 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



II— ON THE BIG RIVER. 




3>bo 



exL 



You may observe, dearly beloved, that this is a lit- 
tle scheme of the Canadian steamship companies for 
cheating Old Ocean ; but whether in behalf of the voy- 
agers — that they may see more and sigh less — or of 
the owners of the line, that they may thus entice trade 
to their docks; or of the provisioners of the ship, that 
they may be sure of good appetites for a longer dis- 
tance, I have not yet studied out. I have, however, 
spread out the biggest map we own, and compared it 

16 



EIGHT WEEKS 



with the Mercator's Projection on the stairway land- 
ing ; and by whatever chart we go, I certainly see our- 
selves by the Canadian lines a long way toward Eng- 
land before ever entering the Atlantic Ocean. So here 
we are, with the first soft light of Fairyland about us, 
water toning gradually from tawny pearl up stream 
to green pearl and blue pearl further out ; dreamy, dim 
woods stretching against the sky to the north, carrying 
our thoughts to summer recreations, to lumber camps, 
to philanthropic work among the people of Labrador ; 
near us the river, alive with excursion boats and fishing 
boats, tugs and coalers and dredging boats, each with 
its own peculiar build and interesting activities ; light- 
house towers moving in stately procession toward us 
as we go; smaller affairs with swaying lanterns or 
ringing bells skimming by; and scarlet buoys bobbing 
up and down to tell us the world is all sport, whatever 
the puffing engines may say about it. Always we are 
near enough one shore to see the pretty villages and 
farms as we pass, and to realize how much better most 
things on this earth look when seen from a much- 
embracing distance. We are enjoying a charming pan- 
orama all the time, and withal can say to ourselves, 
as did the complacent TEneas of old, when he surveyed 
the representations of the siege of Troy : "Of all which 
I was myself a great part ;" for are not we and our 
staunch steamer, with its big smokestacks, the greatest 
thing amove on this river? And does not every pass- 
ing vessel give us an admiring glance, and every river 
villager wish that he were going with us? All hail to 
those rare flood tides when we sail high and gather up 
enthusiasms for duller times to follow. 

Lo! here is the great rock of Quebec, which would 
feel it an awful insult if we did not speak of it as the 
Gibraltar of America ; and the stout man with all the 
gold lace, whom we suppose to be the captain, but who 

17 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



later is mentioned as the head steward, declines to tell 
until the last moment whether there will be time for 
us to go ashore ; so here we eight stand together in the 
crowd for our first wrestle with the world, and shall be 
able to tell you an hour or two hence what we saw, and 
where, and how. 



4£u& 4r «_^ \_ 



&==. 




18 



EIGHT WEEKS 



Later. — Quebec is just as great as its reputation. 
An immense shoulder of rock projects into the river, 
so that one tradition makes its name originate in the 
exclamation, What a beak! At the base lies a utili- 
tarian stretch of sand and gravel, where a whole vil- 
lage suffered demolition a few years ago from a land- 
slide; but up on the rock, reached by a long, winding 
road, is a typical city on a hill, precipice on one side, 
wide, stretching slopes on the other; old, old streets 
that twist and twine as if the very spirit of the old 
world were in them ; steep pavements where the horses 
have to dig their shoes into the dents to struggle zig- 
zagging up, or brace themselves gingerly down ; often 
a flight of steps making a cross-cut for pedestrians, 
most notably the broad "breakneck stairs," and on the 
very brow of this great rock a castle of a hotel flinging 
its proud towers up to the sky and perpetuating the 
name of the royal governor Frontenac ; in front of 
it a beautiful park honoring another of Canada's heroes 
by its name of Dufferin Terrace ; and finally, in the 
most conspicuous point of this last, with a background 
of blue hills, green shores, and the broad, shining 
river, a statue to the greatest of them all, our honored 
Champlain. He is well worth looking at as he stands 
in noble bronze upon his marble pedestal. The two 
admiring females in bronze who adore him from the 
base seem to us to be Glory and Empire ; but our cab- 
man guide, who is evidently a well-informed man, tells 
us that this is the great Champlain and his wife and 
children ! 

We would be glad to see more of the newer ave- 
nues and residence streets of the city where they spread 
out sumptuously toward the Fields of Abraham on the 
north ; but the freight is fast taking on board our wait- 
ing vessel, and we must run no risks. One glimpse 
at dignified Parliament House, which has a kind of 

19 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



sunken garden approach to its basement story, adorned 
with a bronze and marble fountain of the Red Man, 
and bears on its facade bronze statues of the great 
explorers, and then, rattle, rattle down the long street 
to the wharf; and here's hoping that anything in 
Europe will look more quaint and old-timey than this 
city on the rock. 

We have had our first lesson in the traveler's art of 
skipping. I rank that among his greatest achieve- 
ments. Don't suppose me so anxious to be epi- 
grammatic that, like some preachers I have listened to, 
I will gallantly state a truth that is not true ; when you 
find me doing that, please give me a friendly slap in 
the face; but believe me, that from the experience of 
many years I have acquired a great respect for the art 
of skipping. We sisters worked at it first long years 
ago, when we began our sketch-books number one, 
and found that the pages generally turned out a show- 
ing of black lead. And since that time, in sketching 
and reading, home work and town work, the study 
of skipping has continued. Given a whole world full 
of work to do, with a limit of strength and eyesight, 
and only sixteen hours a day at the most for its accom- 
plishment, and here are the problems : What shall 
we skip? How shall we skip it? And what under- 
standing shall we have with the Great Task Master 
whereby we may, at each day's end, not load ourselves 
with reproaches and regrets, but listen to that most 
restful of good-night words : Well done, good and 
faithful servant? 

In this rapid summer's tour we intend to use what 
eyes and brains we can, but, according to our best dis- 
crimination, do a colossal amount of skipping. If we 
do it wisely we shall hope, as the French say, to "ar- 
rive." And to my good pastor friends, on whom t 
threw a little slur just now, I offer in expiation a 

20 



EIGHT WEEK'S' 



theme for some future sermon : The Art of Arriving. 
If they wish their revenge upon me, they can say that 
the sisters have not quite so much ability that way as 
the brethren; and if they have not a text ready for 
their theme, we'll lend them the one we hope we may 
proudly inscribe at the end of our ten weeks : Gen. 
12 15, And they went forth to go into the land of 
Canaan ; and into the land of Canaan they came. 

We are ready for a good rest in our little berths 
to-night ; and for our dreams we will choose a con- 
tinued vision of the beautiful falls of Montmorency 
that plunge right down the river bank among the for- 
est trees a little east of Quebec, so shining and quiver- 
ing that we could almost believe we heard their roar. 

Good night. No need for steamer rugs as yet. A 
soft moon sails overhead, as it always should for trav- 
elers to Fairyland. 

M. 



21 



EIGHT LANDS'IN 



III— ON SALT WATER. 




Saturday, June 26. 

And still the summer air stays by us, although we 
begin to feel that a change will come with the big 
ocean. The Straits of Belle Isle at the north are 
blocked with ice, and we are obliged to take the longer 

22 



EIGHT WEEKS 1 



passage around the southern capes of Newfoundland. 
All this morning we have been passing near the coasts 
of New Brunswick, where a succession of steep and 
barren hills come close down to the sea; and every 
time that some enterprising little river makes its way 
between these crowding giants, a fisherman's village 
nestles on its banks, and, I dare say, raises cabbages 
and potatoes. But we are too far away to see these 
comforts, and the little hamlets with few trees, and 
only an occasional church, look pretty lonely. Do you 
suppose they have as many and as lively interests as 
we? and feel as the old lady on Mt. Washington did 
when she learned that the friendly tourist was from 
Boston. "Boston ! My goodies, how can you bear to 
live so far away?" We never saw such remote places 
of the earth sail by us before, and we can't quite decide 
whether they are the dream, or we. 







\ 



A fellow passenger says that the Newfoundland 
mountains are in sight on the other side of the ship, 
and all streaked with snow. Will it pay to go around 
and look at them? Already the reaction from stren- 

23 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



uous days of packing and departing is beginning to be 
felt, and we have to use a little discipline not to get 
rooted to our steamer-chairs. There are plenty for all 
on board, and assigned without price, although a notice 
on the ship's bulletin says otherwise ; so the only for- 
mality to be observed is that of not pushing into a 
place already chosen by some one else. 

Now, what do you want to know first, before my 
indolence becomes too great ? About the ship, or about 
us ? Well, of course, "us" is the most interesting thing 
on board ; but because some of you are not familiar 
with ocean greyhounds, it would be orderly to begin 
with this one, of which we are already very fond. From 
our limited and uncritical knowledge, we find nothing 
to wish otherwise. A gallant sight she is, in black and 
white, with smokestacks of red and yellow, and tall 
masts that seem not to be working their passage at all. 
They are the attachments for a complicated rigging of 
ropes and ladders, for yard-arms and sheets, and for 
a certain little wooden church pew — so it looks— about 
half-way up the foremast, the so-called crow's nest, 
where you can always see the head of a man on watch ; 
a man who may not go to sleep like little boys in 
church pews, but looks and looks for all he is worth 
until the end of his shift comes, and another far- 
sighted man, fresh and steady, takes his place. 

The next highest thing in constant use is the hurri- 
cane deck, where the captain or first or second officer 
holds sway and gives orders to the man at the wheel. 
If you try to promenade this hurricane deck, which is 
most alluring in pleasant weather, you will be asked 
to remain respectfully on the further side of a certain 
railing, and the officer in command will not seem 
anxious to cultivate your acquaintance. This hurricane 
deck is the real roof of the top story; for steamships 
are somewhat pyramidal in their parts above water; 

24 



EIGHT WEEKS 



and you will find no place where you can poetically and 
lonesomely pace the deck from stem to stern. 
This upper story, for example, covers only certain 
apartments de luxe, where millionaires pay at the rate 
of a thousand or two for a suite of rooms all to them- 
selves. The next lower deck furnishes the widest and 
longest space for promenaders, and here rows of fold- 
ing chairs, made easy for head and for feet, are 
arranged so as to leave plenty of room to walk by the 
hour, to pace off the length of the deck and speculate 
on the exact course one must take to give a mile in 
eight turns ; or was it four turns ? or sixteen ? At any 
rate, the promenade is a continuous ellipse, circling the 
library, smoking rooms and captain's apartments ; and, 
although it breaks off abruptly toward the prow, where 
you look down at the steerage people, and toward the 
stern where the second cabin people hold possession — 
it gives one a very satisfactory walk, partly in sun, 
partly in shade, and always in the wind, as one strug- 
gles round the prow end, where huge canvas screens 
are stretched almost across to keep the meeting breezes 
from sweeping the side decks clear of us all. A can- 
vas for protection has also been drawn inside the ship's 
railing, most useful, but obstructing the view of those 
who are enjoying the voyage from their chairs. This 
big promenade deck is right over the row of state- 
rooms that we occupy, and partly over the big dining- 
rooms ; but some confusion in description arises from 
the fact that the word decks is used for both of these 
open verandas and of the whole floor, or story, to 
which they belong. 

Go down one flight, now, to the broadest part of 
the ship, occupied by the above mentioned dining halls 
and staterooms, and lighted by round "port-holes" — 
so we call them, although port-holes really belong to 
cannon — round windows with heavy brass frames, 

25 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



ready to be screwed shut in case of storms — and here 
you find the promenade quite narrow, and only the 
stern end really of use, which last is given up to the 
second cabin; and you don't often infringe on its 
space unless to make a friendly call. It is a good thing 
to have acquaintances in the second cabin, or even to 
be there yourself, so as to learn how comfortable you 
can be made even when you are not of the high cock-a- 
lorums. Most of us have had a chance to know this 
before ; but how quickly and charmingly one can throw 
aside his modest manners when he suddenly finds him- 
self entitled by the purchase of a first-class ticket, to 
the best the ship affords ! And how easily a faint 
sense of compassion steals into one's soul for one's 
compeers who happen on this occasion to remain in the 
station that most of his life has been his own ! Oh, 
yes, we are all born gods, at least we Americans ; and 
Olympus is at any moment just our own backyard. 
But wait till a rough day comes on shipboard, and 
perhaps even Olympus will look like Hades to us, and 
nectar and ambrosia will be nowhere. 

Now I know that by this time you are all awfully 
tired of this palace of a ship, even though its balus- 
trades be of mahogany and its door-knobs and electric 
fixtures of shining brass. So I will just say to you 
what I intended to put at the opening of this sheet, 
that you who have already sailed the sea may skip this 
letter without hurting my feelings in the least. 

Six bells is ringing for 3 o'clock, and I think you 
and I deserve a nap before afternoon tea. Every four 
hours these bells begin anew, striking at every half 
hour, and so reaching eight bells at 4, 8 and 12 of 
night and of day. These bells originated with the 
shifting of the watch ; and whatever their purpose now, 
I am inclined to think that travelers could no longer 
sleep easy o' nights without them. At another writing 

26 



EIGHT WEEKS 



I'll tell you about our seven meals a day. Won't that 
be delightful? And perhaps about our attentive stew- 
ards and waiters. What a little world we are, all to 
ourselves ; and for the time being every one as impor- 
tant in his place and office as in the big world beyond 
the waves. 

Whirr, whirr, whirr sounds from the wireless tele- 
graph office ; but we can't find that any great informa- 
tion has come or gone. When the daily paper makes 
its first appearance on Monday we may have news to 
burn. 

My steamer rug begins to feel comfortable ; so I 
wrap myself well up in it, hang my omnivorous bag, 
which holds my writing materials, my guide-book, last 
letters received, veil, boa, gloves, work-bag, field 
glasses and diary on the back of my chair, adjust my 
little pillow, and say, "Pleasant dreams" to you and 
all the world. 

M. 



27 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



IV— A SUNDAY AT SEA. 

Sunday, June 2J. 
Dear friends: 

We are sailing out into the great ocean on this the 
first day of the week. Some of us have been afraid 
that, with the disappearance of land, a panic might 
come upon us. But our feeling, instead, is of being 
in a great floating hotel, with no wider horizon than 
that of preceding days, only that land happens to 
be on the other side of the ship, or somewhere 
just around the corner. A ship's captain said to 
me many years ago : "You must remember that, at 
most, you are never more than five miles from land;" 
and he pointed his finger significantly downward. 

My Lady Practical and some others began the day 
with early communion in the steerages ; the rest of 
our party followed with 1 1 o'clock service in the dining 
saloon, and some of us contemplate attending the ves- 
per song service in the second cabin. There is some- 
thing exceedingly good and simple in these services at 
sea — people of so many climes and such varied affil- 
iations meeting in one quiet hour of praise and prayer. 
We forget all differences of creed and ritual, and are 
swept away, as it were, by the infinities that surround 
us and uplift us ; the heavens above, the deep beneath, 
and all about us the love of the Everlasting. My Lady 
of the Veil says that a German steamer on which she 
once journeyed had no Sunday service, although there 
were five clergymen on board. On the other hand, we 
hear that on English lines the captain always reads 

28 



EIGHT WEEKS 



prayers, if no other chaplain be at hand. No doubt 
there is a lot of agnosticism sailing the sea, as well as 
living on the land, but I have serious doubts whether 
those people who prefer to have their religious instincts 
ignored are not still in the minority — be it on ship- 
board, in town, in business, in school ; and whether 
those devout souls who have a high-bred fear of forc- 
ing religion upon their high-bred neighbors are not in 
danger of starving a host of hungry hearts in the name 
of liberality and good manners. Certainly on this 
steamer the dining-room chairs, swung away from the 
baize-covered tables, bright with flowers, were well 
filled; and it was easy to drop on one's knees on the 
cabin floor, even though the big waves were beginning 
to be felt, and some of us were wondering whether the 
two rectors wished themselves back in their steady 
reading desks. 

While we are down here in the dining saloons, fed 
with bread from on high, I may as well tell you about 
the daily physical bread as well. For you have noticed 
that spiritual exaltation does not, in most of us, have 
any quarrel with physical satisfaction. Yes, we are 
well fed, seven times a day, if so we desire. An early 
cup of tea is brought to the staterooms for all who 
ask for it; at half-past eight a substantial breakfast is 
served, worthy of American and European tastes com- 
bined. At eleven bouillon and sandwiches appear upon 
deck and in the tea-room for all who feel an ocean- 
greyhound faintness ; and it is surprising how many 
indolent voyagers find it worth while to get their hands 
out from their all-enveloping wraps and look alive in 
their reclining chairs. At half-past one there is an 
elaborate lunch, equal to more than a home dinner. 
From four to five a dainty tea, with the thinnest slices 
of buttered bread, is served on the little tables of the 
tea-room. At seven comes the big dinner, with every- 

29 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

thing from soup to nuts; and just before bedtime 
appear great piles of sandwiches in the library. Can 
you imagine the wan appearance of those of us who 
can count seven? 

Now it is drawing toward sunset, and vespers are 
over. Here go the couples and trios and solos walking 
the deck; the rectors and their wives, the ladies' col- 
lege president and her friend, the pretty teacher from 
W. college with our Lady in Blue, the poor young 
woman who can't walk with a companion because 
talking makes her cough, the energetic little matron of 
big sense who brought a whole raft of orphans from 
England to establish in Canadian homes not many 
weeks ago, and now, happy in the hearts she has made 
glad and the little lives she has set on the right path, 
is returning to further work in her beloved barrack of 
philanthropies. She is walking with My Lady Bright 
Eyes and telling her all about it. Here come the young 
men and maidens whom we like to consider as lovers, 
although that picturesque element, like the sportive 
dolphins, is mostly lacking. Now follow young priests 
in pairs, some of them silently gazing on their brev- 
iaries, others engaged in earnest discussion, and never 
breaking the rule of their order by turning an eye 
toward a woman, young or old ; and here, best of all, 
flock the children, of whom we have a merry throng, 
enjoying their last romps before bedtime. 

Our first Lord's Day upon the ocean is at an end ; 
one of us whispers softly, "The sea is His, and He 
made it ;" and another answers, "O, ye sea and floods, 
bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for- 
ever !" 

Good-night to you all. 

M. 



30 



EIGHT WEEKS 



V— THE EIGHT. 

Monday, June 28. 
Dear friends : 

I have waited as long as I possibly can be- 
fore introducing to you our party. Even now I 
must confess that some of them are only half-way 
known to me ; and yet I shall not, in the course of these 
letters, revise the judgment given here. For, con- 
fession number two, when these letters are finally 
copied for the printer, certain later judgments will 
inevitably have crept into them, so that they will rep- 
resent not only to-day, the twenty-eighth of June, but 
some quiet evening in next September; and any of 
you who love higher criticism will be able to try your 
hand at them in expounding to the simple how many 
different periods of composition are represented, how 
many authors, and what succession of reactions. For 
— confession number three — just as there is an edi- 
torial "we," so there may be what I would call the 
categorical, or psychological "I." Choose whichever 
term you think the better. This "I" may represent 
several writers and as many points of view ; may pos- 
sibly render the judgment of that same I" of little 
value ; but it is a pronoun of much easier handling than 
the more truthful "we;" and you know yourself that 
it would seem a trifle strained if I should candidly 
write : "J une 2 §, on the ship's main deck ; here we sit 
in eight steamer chairs, wrapped in eight several rugs, 
our eight fountain pens in our eight right hands (ex- 

31 



EIGHT LANDS IN 




cept that two of us are left-handed), vainly attempt- 
ing to set before you in vivid colors the eight waves 
that dash at our sixteen feet." 

With no further apologies for my egotistical pre- 
sentation of "us," I proceed to lead up all of our dear 
ladies before you, and beseech you to receive them with 
good will. 

First, our matron, whom I call 
My Lady Practical, for I notice that 
she accepts the actual and the inevit- 
able in a charming spirit of making 
the best of all that comes her way. 
And for that we love her. 

Next, My Lady Bright Eyes. We 
have not been on shipboard for four 
days without discovering that she 
is our great discoverer. What she does not see is 
hardly worth seeing ; and it will not be strange if we 
use her as a kind of opera glass for the rest of us. 
By way of painting the rose, however, she can herself 
snatch out that little glass of hers from her handbag 
in an incredibly short space of time, and have it trained 
on a first officer, a distant iceberg, or the slowly 
approaching deck steward, while the rest of us are 
just finding out that such an object is heaving in sight. 
It is not strange if she has grown rather fond of this 
talent of hers, and would much rather discover an 
excellence herself than have it "starred" for her in the 
guide books ; hence, if you wish to be admired by her, 
don't go around with one of Baedeker's stars on your 
shoulder. 

Our Lady of the Star is number three. You may 
never be told exactly why we call her by this name, 
but it will suffice you to know that she has a way of 
hitching her chariot to a star; and that, whenever 
she feels that star begin to draw, a pretty light comes 

32 



EIGHT WEEKS 



into her eyes and steals over all 
her face, so that we, too, look 
starward. 

My Lady of the Guide Book 
comes next, and might perhaps 
be called My Lady Arbitrary; 
for when she says, "Go to the 
left," no man dares turn to the 
right, although he knows it is the 
better way. She wields the 
guide-book as a mighty rod, and 
if she wields it sometimes to the 
discomfiture of others, she has an 
admirable way of forgiving her 
own mistakes and of hoping that 
others will do the same; which, 
in the end, certainly draws from 
us all considerable forgiveness. 




33 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



4^' p-" LH 




XJ X.; <-' 



My Lady in Green is already blessed for having 
chosen a suit by which we can describe her to any 
policeman in any language, in case of losing her from 
sight ; or better, can keep her in sight 
without help of policemen. She has 
a knack for mathematics and has ap- 
pointed herself especial agent to 
count the "eight suit-cases and two 
small pieces" that are to be our joy 
and our sorrow, our hindrance and 
our pride, our bottomless deep for 
purchases, and our widow's cruse for 
changes of wardrobe. 
My Lady in Blue is still in a maze of wonder that ever 
she is here; what the Germans call "a blue wonder." 
She wonders, also, whether Europe will be what she 
has imagined it, and if not, whether she ought at all 

34 




.JiV 



EIGHT WEEKS 



to approve of it. She and My Lady Bright Eyes have 
set up a good U. S. A. standard to judge things by; 
and if these do not come up to the mark of our great 
•Republic, no matter whether they wish to come up to 
that mark or prefer to plunge down to Hades, so much 
the worse for them. But my Lady in Blue will be 
good to such recalcitrants, even if they drop from the 
zenith to the nadir. 




My Lady Persistent has to pinch herself occasionally 
to be sure that it is she walking this deck ; but having 
amazed herself and all her friends by firmly crossing 
the gangplank, she means to let the good work go on, 
see all that is worth seeing, keep her strength in re- 
serve for the best things, and if she does not agree 
with the critics and their guide-book stars, know the 
reason why. 

Now, having counted seven, you suppose that I 
have kept myself for the last ; but there you are might- 
ily mistaken. My Lady of the Veil is the last, for she 

35 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



was the last to join our party. The initiated say that 
she has some pretty grey crimps under that black hat 
and dotted veil ; but so far we have not had a chance 
to find it out. I never would say so trite a thing of 
her as that "the best comes last," for she has not a 




trite word or thought about her; but I will say that 
she is our newest acquaintance; and that, by some 
queer witchcraft, she has captured all our hearts. 

Don't, I beg of you, try to remember or distinguish 
all of us eight ; but when I have occasion to mention 
one of us by name, just say to yourself, "Oh, yes, I 
can look her up in letter No. 5 some day." 

Lovingly yours, 

M. 



36 



EIGHT WEEKS 



VI— BELOW DECK. 

Tuesday, June 29. 
Beloved brethren ■' 

I cannot tell you how it grieves me to have no great 
sights and no deeds of prowess to record of this our 
notable voyage. Not a whale has spouted along 
our tracks, nor a porpoise flopped up out of the 
water; hence we are robbed disgracefully of the 
usual discussion on whales, sperm whales, whale- 
bone, and spouting; also on the difference between 
a porpoise and a dolphin, and the appropriateness 
of the term school as applied to the former. 
No phosphorescent polyps and globes of shining 
vanity have held us spellbound at the ship's rail by 
night; no vessels have spoken us along the way; only 
one inadequate iceberg has loomed up on our horizon ; 
the wireless has reported nothing greater than a 
cricket match; and the only resource still remaining 
is some prize athletics booked for the deck on Friday 
morning, and a concert for the benefit of a Sailors' 
Orphans' Home on Thursday. Ignominious we ! Hav- 
ing nothing in the line of narrative for to-day, and 
having given you as much of exposition and argument 
as you can bear, I will fall back on the only other 
division of prose given in the rhetoric books, the trav- 
eler's stock in trade — Description. 

You have not been down into our staterooms yet; 
and they look as well just now as they ever can, with 
a steamer trunk each under the lower berth and the 
red velvet couch, the glory of the latter nearly ob- 

37 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

scured by one of our suit-cases and a lot of ubiq- 
uitous wraps ; our few wardrobe hooks on and beside 
the door loaded with the traveling' suits we expect 
again to step into when we bid good-by to our steamer 
rugs and begin to have normal pride in clothes. You 
see, then, that the upper berth is also at times a catch- 
all; and, in spite of neat netted racks above both the 
lower and upper, and a clean linen set of pock- 
ets at the head of the couch, we do generally overflow 
our whole furnishings with our essentials of living; 
only the mahogany dressing table between the berths 
and the couch is such a cunning combination of 
shelves, racks and folding washstand that it can't be 
kept in disorder, and it rouses our admiration at every 
new viewing. When two of us are in this stateroom 
there is just space for us both to stand up, if we keep 
our arms close at our sides. Consequently, dressing 
and undressing become a matter of necessary succes- 
sion ; unless the human form learns to assume most 
inhuman attitudes in the attempt to perform these 
functions in a berth. The athletics that are employed 
by the energetic roommate who offers to occupy the 
upper berth rather than sacrifice that catch-all, the 
couch, are also a matter of training ; and we've learned 
things not a few in these seven by seven quarters. 
Along the narrow corridors, or in the spotless bath- 
rooms, where hot or cold salt water baths may be 
enjoyed by those who are so methodical and so sure 
of their sea legs as to make regular appointments with 
the stewardess, you will meet with this dainty, kindly 
official, or one of her sister stewardesses, all in black 
gown, white apron and cap, as though there were never 
anything rough or more ruffling on sea than the bor- 
ders of those same aprons. The cheery tone with 
which she predicts good weather, and reports of the 
last voyage, "Twenty-six ladies, mum, in my corridor, 

38 



EIGHT WEEKS 



and not one ill," can be equalled only by the sympa- 
thetic tone in which she comes to the assistance of My 
Lady Persistent, explains to her that her malady is 
nothing out of the ordinary, and that there is "nothing 
like a good dose of salts for the curing of it." Her 
patience never fails in bringing broths and filling 
hot-water bags. Her kindness and alacrity loosen the 
strings of our purse at once; and our loosened purse- 
strings react upon her alacrity. We cannot, for the 
life of us, tell whether it is a comfort or a terror to 
be told that during her first two voyages she had a 
bad head from beginning to end — '"but never gave up 
to it, mum, not for a moment, and since that time 
have been a good sailor every voyage." But suppose 
that we should happen to have but two voyages in 
our life, and those should be our first two? Some 
problems are better shifted to the future. Time is a 
great solver of problems. 

Along our little corridor, quite near the dining- 
room end, after you have passed the engine house, 
where it is good to stand and warm one's back against 
the tiled partition as at a big Dutch stove, and also 
beyond those fascinating windows that look into the 
kitchenful of shining sights and savory smells, stands 
a small boy in buttons, whose apparent duty is to 
emulate Milton's posts — to stand and wait. I've been 
pitying that poor little chap, who for so many hours 
just makes acquaintance with a square piece of floor 
under his feet and a larger piece of mahogany balus- 
trade opposite his eyes; and the following conversa- 
tion has ensued, scattered through several passing 
interviews : "Aren't you a pretty small boy to be here 
in buttons?" "I've only been here since December, 
mum." "But aren't you pretty young for buttons and 
a uniform?" "Just turned fourteen, mum." (He 
looks eleven.) "And how do you like it here in but- 

39 



EIGHT LANDS IN 




tons?" "Fine, mum." "And what is your name, my 
boy?" "Tummy, mum." "Tommy what?" "Tummy 
Answissle, mum." "And where do you live, Tommy ?" 
"In Liverpool, mum." "And is your mother on 
board?" "Oh, no, mum." "Or are there any other 
of the ship's hands that are your friends and look after 
you?" "Oh, no, mum." "Do you have any free time 

40 



EIGHT WEEKS 



in the day, Tommy?" "Oh, yes, mum, every after- 
noon two hours on deck." I assure you it has been 
a great relief to learn in time that Tommy has sudden 
calls from one and another to help, at this and that, 
and that at meal time it is his privilege and duty to 
hold the dining-room curtain as high as his little figure 
can stretch, and pass us gallantly through. Don't you 
think a certain mother's eyes get pretty watery when 
the time draws near for her shining-faced sailor lad to 
come home between voyages ? 

Our table waiters also rouse our admiration by 
their marvelous combination of the man and the 
machine; as methodical and perfect as the latter, as 
observant and courteous as the former; and when at 
dinner, our sixth meal of the day, at which they have 
some part to perform, they appear immaculate in cut- 
aways and white ties, and fresh for all the labor of 
that six-course function, we feel that we owe it to them 
to applaud. We do not begrudge them the half sov- 
ereign that is their expected fee from every traveler. 
But when the bedroom steward, big and burly, appears 
upon the scene upon the last day, strapping our trunks 
and bundling us out of our rooms, and claims, as I 
know he will, that the same fee is his right, according 
to steamer tariff, and that he, as bearer of all state- 
room responsibility, is to be remembered systemat- 
ically and generously, "and then ye may give what ye 
choose to the stewardess and the deck steward" — we 
shall feel to rebel, although we shall accept the inev- 
itable and pay our fee. 

This whole matter of fees is one which annoys a 
traveler from its bottom stone; it is degrading to the 
person feed, a constant puzzle to the f eer, and a thing 
to be wholly reversed before the matter of employer 
and employee can be satisfactorily adjusted. Why 
should one or two classes of people in the world be 

41 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



relegated to fees for their living? What service would 
you expect of a railroad conductor who depended on 
fees to piece out his salary? A drygoods clerk? A 
dressmaker? A teacher? We Americans have done 
wrong in bringing this vicious habit across the seas, 
and we should take hold with a will to root it out. 
Special pay for special service when you will; pres- 
ents to those whom you have associated with in rela- 
tion of employer and employee until you feel bonds of 
friendship between you ; but when, in any department, 
fees are replacing salary, in the name of American 
manliness and honesty, let us protest and save our- 
selves from becoming one of the "lands of the out- 
stretched hand.'' 

Now, with my tirade against fees, I have omitted 
to mention the rest of the personnel of the ship — the 
somewhat brusk purser in the little office where we 
get our money changed ; the obliging librarian who 
looks after a few shelves of books in the tea room, and 
the higher officers, whom we never see unless perhaps 
at a distance at the dining-room table. The captain 
may be, as in the olden days, a father to us all ; but we 
are too many to be made aware of it, except by his 
carrying us safely and rapidly through the perils of 
storm and fog and hidden rock. As for all the sailors, 
stokers, deck hands — they seem to do their work 
quietly and well, and we hope that at the end of our 
voyage they may have occasion to think as well of us 
as we of them. 

This is another of the letters that you may skip, 
especially if you know it all and agree with me in my 
judgments. If not, be sure to read it. 

Honestlv and pedagogicallv vours, 

M. 



42 



EIGHT WEEKS 



VII— A GRAY DAY. 

Thursday, July I. 

(A very brief letter, to be omitted by all those who 
have qualms.) 

Now, when we went to sea, dear friends, we set our 
faces as a flint against all, "mal de mer." My Lady 
Practical, not believing much in drugs, threw all re- 
sponsibility on Mother Nature and expected the 
best. My Lady in Blue, being a follower of little pills, 
fortified herself with a tiny bottle of Humphrey's Spe- 
cifics. My Lady in Green accepted with thanks a pre- 
scription prepared by the most eminent physicians with 
the noblest results, and implying a beginning some 
days before embarking and a continuation "till all 
danger of the malady should be past," if you can 
guess when that would be. One or two of us would 
gladly have taken up with a sure cure discovered some 
years ago by an observing cynic : "Get up a flirtation 
and you will soon find yourself on your feet." But 
alas ! the necessary ingredients for that cure are sorely 
lacking. The rest of us have meditated variously upon 
a plaster of codfish skin, a firm belt to be tightened as 
fast as the ship's fare would allow ; a daily irritation 
behind the ears caused by rubbing with the fingers ; 
and — Christian Science. And with all these cures, we 
have fared mighty well till the weather saw fit yester- 
day afternoon to turn the world gray, send down rain 
in gusty sheets, and chop the sea as fine as a New 
England hash; whereupon we all began, one after 

43 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

another, to lose interest in the six-course dinner, and 
to find our staterooms snugger and warmer than the 
deck. Did I say all ? No, indeed ; My Lady Practical, 
to her own amazement, felt no inconvenience what- 
ever, and continued to enter notes in that enticing lit- 
tle blank book that she always has ready in her little 
handbag ; and My Lady in Blue, deciding that "mal de 
mer" was not a good American infirmity, took no inter- 
est whatever in the same, and gave Dr. Humphrey 
the glory. 

Your humble servant has had to fall into verse to 
pass the time away, and if the results are a bit jerky, 
and quite heterogeneous in thought and meter, and in 
the lack of both, be assured that they represent just 
such a choppy sea as none of you would care to sail 
upon. 

A GRAY DAY AT SEA. 

Up hill and down dale, 

Harrying out to the west, 
A thousand thousand waves in gray 

Tossing their plumy crests; 
Nature's palette all rubbed down 

To shiny gray-in-gray ; 
Cerulean seas and azure skies 

Scudding far away. 

Stevedores in their rubber suits 

Scouri)ig a slippery deck, 
Graceful men and maids alurch, 

Bowing at Ocean's beck. 
Mummies tvrappcd in steamer rugs 

Stretched on steamer chairs — 
Smiling lips and sinking hearts, 

Hopes and fears and prayers. 

44 



EIGHT WEEKS 



Dinner served at its very best, 

Soup and fish and flesh; 
Waiters all in their cutaways, 

Table linen fresh. 
Diners few, and — zvcll-a-day! 
Who is this so far away, 

Flat on her weary back 
Munching raisins — in the gray! 
Munching biscuits — woe's the day! 

Alack and alas and alack! 

"Poor little porpoises, heels over head, 

"Dizzy as dizzy can be! 
"Poor old Jonah, and poor, poor whale 

"For centuries out to sea! 
"Poor old Neptune and all his sorry maids, 

"Sighing for a summer drought! 
"Crazy, cold fish, with their eyes abulge, 

"Wondering what it's all about! 
"Poor, poor me, that sail upon the sea, 

"And how shall I ever live it out?" 

O, craven soul, O, cringing soul! 

Forgetful on the wide, wide deep 
Of our captain walking the bridge by night; 
Of the crow's-nest watch in his giddy height; 

And of Him, who, keeping Israel, 
Will slumber not nor sleep! 



45 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



VIII— THE DESIRED HAVEN. 

Friday, July 2. 

Is it possible that I am beginning to record for you 
the end of our ocean voyage ? This week, which was 
to give us leisure for answering all letters owing in 
the past and two or three big steamer epistles, besides 
writing a shoal of postals with views of our ship to all 
the friends who had wished us bon voyage; leisure 
also for reading sundry critical works upon foreign 
travel, looking up our guide-books, and skimming over 
a few novels ; this lovely week in which we were to 
take naps every day, gossip at our ease with our fel- 
low passengers, write up our diaries and notebooks, 
and make a few sketches ; this immortal week — 
where is it gone ? 

Early in our voyage we began inquiring into the 
feasibility of becoming acquainted with the inner work- 
ings of our ship, and some officer in uniform — captain 
or deck steward — assured us that nothing was simpler 
or more reasonable. Did we ever go even so far as 
to our own kitchen that looked out into the stateroom 
gangways ? By no means. "Oh, no, not to-day ; 
wait till we get out to sea, ma'am, and everything is 
in order." Did that orderly time ever come? When 
we got out to sea we thought much more about re- 
maining happily on deck than about exposing our- 
selves to kitchen smells and machine smells in the 
interesting interior. Of course during that miserable 
two days' storm no one cared to go chopping down the 

46 



EIGHT WEEKS 



stairs to a still more choppy hold; and naturally this 
last day we are packing our trunks, to be left in stor- 
age or forwarded to our returning steamer, and are 
looking up the various fountain pens, fur boas, and 
pet scissors that have been "perfectly safe" among 
these trustworthy stewards and charming passengers,' 
that could not possibly have thrown themselves over- 
board, and yet that cannot now be found. Well did 
my wily Captain-Deck-Steward know that he would be 
bothered with no procession of snooping women, mak- 
ing trouble in his snug laboratories and provision 
stores ! 

Then here is another trouble. So fast have we trav- 
eled to the east that we have each day made an hour's 
stride ahead of time ; that is to say, have lost a solid 
hour by our watches ; and worst of all, that hour has 
been readjusted on the ship's clock every midnight, 
thus shortening every night's rest since we came on 
board. Many a time are we reminded of old Jinnie, 
the family slave of long ago, who summarized it thus : 
"Laws, Missus, dat so! de days ah so shoht an' de 
nights ah a mere nuffin." 

We have been passing the Emerald Isle to-day, and 
it is Fairyland all right. We had forgotten how trees 
and green fields looked, and are as pleased as the pro- 
verbial child with a new toy. I can see now how it is 
that, for us old travelers in life, all things might some 
day be made new. It takes so short a time of whole- 
some rest to wash out the memory streaks and leave 
our minds white paper for the new and grand picture. 
We are ready to be little children once more and 
learn grass and flowers and sweet nature's face all over 
again. Unfortunately the ship's company has kept the 
human element so vividly before us that we cannot 
honestly claim to be unprejudiced explorers in that 
realm of attractions. We are not quite sure that we 

.47 



EIGHT LANDS LN 



shall see cabmen and hotel keepers in that lovely light 
that "never was on land or sea." 

Speaking of the ship's clock, I must also tell you 
about the ship's chart. On that important stairway 
landing where the two flights from the deck floor 
swing round together to make a broad flight down to 
the dining room, that landing where notices appear of 
deck chairs and Sunday services, of concerts and 
games, and our lost fountain pens, there hangs also a 
fine chart of the Atlantic Ocean and of our proposed 
route across it; veering just enough north of the longi- 
tude line to describe an arc of a great circle — for that, 
you know, is the equivalent on a sphere of a straight 
line in a plane. On this inspiring line there appears 
every day at noon a tiny flag marking the definite 
point of latitude and longitude where we now float; 
and alongside of the chart is an exact record of the 
number of knots made each day. When you see a lit- 
tle whirligig of a machine running a line off from one 
side of our stern toward something bobbing in the 
water, you may know that in some way that innocent 
contrivance is marking the speed of our greyhound 
and her progress through the fields of foam. Eighteen 
good knots an hour we have made most of the time, 
except when Newfoundland obliged us to feel our way 
over the "Banks." We are very proud of our twin- 
screw propellers and turbine wheels whose intimate 
acquaintance we had hoped to make during that tra- 
ditional inspection of the ship, but now we shall have 
to continue on our way through Europe, confessing 
that we never saw those turbines, and have but a 
shadowy idea of the way in which our engine pumps 
the water against their phalanges and makes the great 
wheels go round. We are turning south into the Irish 
Sea, and they say we shall be safe in Liverpool docks 
by the time we have finished an early breakfast ; so we 

48 



EIGHT WEEKS 



must hie us to our little berths betimes ; who knows 
when again we may be able to have nine hours in bed 
with no call to the strenuous duties or pleasures of the 
day? 

Our text-book that we are making for the hearten- 
ing of this little pilgrimage records to-day : "So He 
bringeth them to their desired haven," and that gives 
me a lot of beautiful things to think about as I lay 
my head for the last time on the tough little pillow 
of my narrow-minded berth. 

Adieu, and pleasant dreams. 

M. 

Post-scriptum, which is unusual — Some one of you 
who is statistically inclined may care to know that our 
steamer measures 450 feet in length, 65 feet in width, 
and is reckoned of 12,000 tons burden. You may also 
like to know that the biggest ships now afloat measure 
some two hundred feet more than ours in length, and 
are of 32,000 tons burden, and that, by the time these 
letters reach you, all such measurements will be ancient 
history, so fast does each great ocean line try to outdo 
its rivals. As for comparing our X Y Z with Noah's 
Ark and the Great Eastern, there I draw the line; 
although I have the measurements safe at home and 
can give them to you in private, if you will come to 
me in an humble spirit of inquiry. 



49 



PART II— ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND. 



IX— LIVERPOOL TO CHESTER. 

Saturday, July 3. First day on land. 

Also our first day in merry old England, and already 
we feel as though we had been here a week, or — to put 
it mildly — -were Englishmen born. 

We had in anticipation fortified ourselves with cer- 
tain facts — first, that "England," geographically speak- 
ing, includes about one-half of one small island, com- 
paring unfavorably in size with our little New Eng- 
land ; that "Great Britain" is decidedly larger, com- 
prising England, Scotland and Wales ; that the "Brit- 
ish Isles" reach out to include Ireland, the Hebrides, 
and other lands lying near ; and that the ''British Em- 
pire" — or even little "England" herself, in a political 
sense — flings her arms wide about the big, rolling 
earth, takes a bit out of every continent on the globe, 
and lives in everlasting day, her sun — that little lamp 
set up for her benefit some millions of miles away — 
having of recent centuries never been known to set. 
Fact number two — that England has three favorite 
ports as termini for her steamship lines from the west 
— four, if I may include Scotland : Glasgow on the 
Clyde, the real port being Greenock, a place approached 
through charming islands with pretty names, like 
Arran and Oban, Staffa and Iona; secondly, Liver- 
pool on the Mersey, the greatest commercial city of 
the kingdom, with dry docks and wet docks innumer- 
able and vessels of every nation on earth loading and 
unloading at her wharves, and approached through the 

53 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



Irish Sea, passing Ireland on the north near Moville, 
as in our case, or at the south with a stop at Queens- 
town ; thirdly, Southampton on the English Channel, 
or her neighboring port of Plymouth, where also in- 
numerable steamers start for southern and eastern 
ports, and where German and Dutch vessels make 
connection as they pass up and down the channel; 
and last, London itself, where steamships having large 
cargoes for her warehouses prefer to put in, even at 
the expense of time required in sailing around Rams- 
gate and Margate and fifty miles up the River Thames. 
Our third fact was that all the lakes of England are 
little and all the mountains low; but that, owing to 
the beneficent influences of a generous American 
ocean current, the air is never very cold and turns itself 
into a perpetual watering pot to keep the lovely land- 
scape green. Also, we had looked up our English his- 
tory with great zeal and could say the rhyme of the 
kings backward and forward; for My Lady of the 
Guide Book had impressed upon us that it would be 
impossible to land our trunks safely at Liverpool, still 
more so to buy cairngorms in Scotland, unless we had 
our historical points at our finger-ends. So here we 
are, just spilling over with England of the past; and 
here is tangible England of the present coming upon 
us like a flood. Our theory says, "Skip, skip;" and 
where shall we begin the tantalizing process? With 
Liverpool, certainly ; so we never stopped to ask the 
population or look at a map of the city, but hustled 
our trunks as fast as we could into the hands of the 
warehouse and customs officials. One of these made 
a pretense of examining the suit-cases which were to 
go with us, although he plainly read in our every form 
and feature both poverty and honesty; another put 
our trunks ort the high road to meeting us two months 
hence in Naples by handing each of us a small pencil- 

54 



EIGHT WEEKS 



marked slip, which he claimed corresponded to some 
valuable fact in his own memory ; at least, not even 
Lady Bright Eyes could detect other designation on 
the baggage than a chalk cross-mark meaning, "passed 
by the customs." Shall we ever see those beloved 
trunks again — those indispensable rugs and bags and 
stateroom slippers? 

So then we shifted that anxiety according to the 
second tenet of our traveling code: "First, Skip; sec- 
ond, Be prepared for the best," and found our first 
great satisfaction in seeing ourselves fill two Liver- 
pool cabs, and our eight trim suit-cases of freshest 
straw and bamboo careen jauntily upon their roofs. 
Do you know what importance it gives to the hum- 
blest individual to be one of eight? Did you ever 
hear of esprit de corps? Why, we should every one 
of us be ashamed to be tired or dull or cross, or even 
to take a false step in entering our cab. And what 
do you expect of our leader? Well, my Lady Arbi- 
trary declared that for the first time in her life she 
held her head high with a sense that the world was 
glad to see her and was waiting to do its best for her 
and hers. Don't you see ! When she beckons a cab- 
man as though she expected to be obeyed, fills up one 
coach and at once summons a second, asks the price as 
though she were expecting to hire the British convey- 
ances right down the line, no cabman dares protest 
or overreach. He feels that there is a lot of accumu- 
lated momentum pushing against him also ; that in a 
matter of a possible procession of cabs there may be 
considerable competition, and that it will not be well 
for him to lose the opportunity of being number one 
in that cavalcade ; at once he is on the side of My Lady 
and bosses cabman number two and loads up the suit- 
cases equitably with a loyalty touching to behold. And 
so off through the wide and pleasant streets of Liver- 

55 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



pool, stopping to admire the pretty parks about which 
the principal buildings centre ; and to take a quick walk 
through the large market halls, where long, green 
eels of "vegetable marrow" puzzle us, peas and beans 
and golden squashes look just like home, fish and 
flesh and fowl salute the nostrils, masses of flowers 
give delight, and the biggest strawberries ever grown 
on earth just shout to us from leaf-covered trays. 
Already we begin to weaken regarding the dwarfish 
dimensions of England. 

But do you believe that I am dutifully writing all 
these pages with lovely Chester waiting for my pen ? 

Of course, we knew all about her charms; her 
ancient city walls ; her rows ; her timbered houses, 
and were holding our expectations in leash so as not 
to experience a first disappointment. We wondered 
at the English skies, as blue as Italy ; we admired the 
clear, green water of Liverpool harbor before turning 
our backs upon it; we rejoiced in our first English 
lane with the hawthorn hedges and brambles holding 
it to its narrow way; we peeped lovingly at our first 
thatched cottages, generally set together in rows as 
snug as a block of city houses, and attended by 
thatched barns and haystacks that invited admiration 
from a picturesque distance ; and all the time we tried 
to check that persistent inquiry, "What if we should be 
disappointed in Chester?" Useless query. He who is 
disappointed in Chester has no artist's soul, no anti- 
quarian talents, no sense of the rhythmic poetry that 
can be sung into walls and fields and winding river. 
We have already seen enough to write down Chester 
as our first love. We have watched the sinking sun 
from the city walls ; we have lost our hearts to the 
medieval streets, so quaint and yet so ccomfortable ; 
and we have learned that England, with all her old- 
timey wavs, is no such slow coach as some of her west- 

56 



EIGHT WEEKS 



ern sons would fain believe ; for, "first episode," as the 
rhetoricians say, We eight went for our first trolley 
ride on the roof of one of these charming two-story 
trams. Contrary to all British precedent, the trolley 
broke; second contrariety, our carload waited a full 
ten minutes till another tram should come up to push 
us to a convenient place for making repairs ; third 
contradiction to our preconceived notions, such hus- 
tling speed was used in transferring us to a new tram 
that My Lady in Blue was nearly tripped up on the 
first step of the little winding stair where we women 
are learning to climb airily, as though we were daugh- 
ters of the circus ring, and My Lady Practical was 
calmly left standing upon the curbstone. Of course, 
My Lady Arbitrary did not propose to lose one of her 
flock at this early stage, and insisted on being let off 
at the first possible stop ; and then followed an agitated 
search of the streets, a consulting of policemen, on 
inquiring into the possibility of entering complaints 
against a conductor whose number she had failed to 
note ; and finally a return to our good Hotel Wash- 
ington where, under the shelter of the Father of Our 
Country sat My Lady Practical, calmly awaiting her 
future fate. An excellent omen for our first peril. 
Tenet number three : "In case of doubt, return to the 
hotel," especially if this has the good sense to be named 
from the Father of Our Country. 

To-morrow is the glorious Fourth, and then I will 
deliberately attempt to make you know at least the ele- 
ments of the beauty which takes us captive in this little 
city beside the River Dee. 

Yours to command, 

M. 



57 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



X— A GLORIOUS FOURTH. 

Chester, Sunday, July Fourth. 

A great day and a high day, this ; and we Americans 
sitting around our flower-decked breakfast table of 
Hotel Washington have clusters of tiny American flags 
stacked in front of our plates, and high up in the love- 
in-a-mist of our central nosegay a Union Jack in sweet 
communion with the Stars and Stripes. We make 
our grace a thanksgiving for the past and the present 
of our great country and of us, its little representatives, 
and we inscribe in our growing text-book : "Our fath- 
ers trusted in Thee; they trusted, and Thou didst 
deliver them." 

Now, how do you suppose it came about that we 
had all these dainty silk flags for decoration, and drew 
the eyes of all the neighboring tables admiringly to our 
corner? And also that Union Jack, a full inch larger 
in breadth and length, to show our loyalty to the great 
land that was entertaining us ? Oh, the secret was that 
both we and our friends had been long-sighted and 
provided for just this festival of thanksgiving. It is 
surprising how many essentials can be stowed away in 
one and a half cubic feet of bulging suit-cases; and 
when there comes a rainy day, with no city walls to 
climb or cathedrals to explore, I'll tell you all about 
it, and give you advice for your own conduct in like 
circumstances. 

Chester, as you probably know, is situated on the 
River Dee, famous in folk-songs, and dates its greatest 

58 



EIGHT WEEKS 



reputation back to Roman days when it was, as its 
name still tells us, a Roman Castra. The Roman camp, 
you may remember, was always laid out on a definite 
plan with the commander's quarters in the centre, and 
broad avenues extending at right angles to a fixed 
number of gates, so far as the lay of the land allowed ; 
and this original plan still appears in many, or most, 
of the towns that have grown up from such origins. 
So Chester has two great axes of the city, crossing at 
right angles, these being the streets that are bordered 
with solid old colonnades known as the Rows. Upon 
the colonnades rest the projecting upper stories of the 
houses, and in their shelter are the shops, thus front- 
ing on a continuous covered passage, most picturesque 
in its heavy wooden pillars and interlacing of old beams 
overhead. An added fascination comes from the fact 
that these Rows are on different levels in the different 
streets, usually about ten feet up from the sidewalk, 
and must be approached by steps as old and varied, 
which occur every time a cross street breaks the con- 
tinuity. When you are in these Rows you feel as 
though you had stepped back into the Middle Ages ; 
and as for the quaint bits of crockery and brass, the 
enticing old mirrors and candelabra, the brocades and 
laces here to be found, when you remember three 
things — your pocketbook, your suit-case, and the fact 
that this is but the beginning of your journey, you 
give thanks that most of the shutters are up for Sun- 
day, and that where they are not, the shops are locked. 
For evidently, except in the way of single stealthy 
doors ajar, and a few places for the necessities of daily 
life, England keeps the Sabbath day. So we come 
down from the Rows to get a better view in the narrow 
street of the stories that are above them ; not so very 
many, nor very high between joints, but timbered, 
every one of them; that is, of a construction that 

59 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



shows beams perpendicular and horizontal, with diag- 
onal beams for braces, and all filled in with brick or 
plaster. The upper stories project as much as possi- 
ble, adding room to the house within, and shelter to 
the street without ; delightful combinations of bay win- 
dows and oriel windows, with latticed swinging sashes, 
admit as much light and air as they can; under the 
steep gables more latticed windows climb to the top, 
and the whole fronts, which really deserve to be called 
facades, are made rich with carving, or with a variety 
of coloring that distinguishes the framework from the 
plastered filling. Every house is a study ; almost every 
one is an aesthetic delight; even warehouses and barns 
scorn to drop down to the commonplace, and the build- 
ers of to-day, instead of considering only rapid con- 
struction and money returns, hold to the charming 
models that have justified themselves through the 
centuries. 

As though this forest of timbered beauties, up 
and down the city streets, were not enough to make 
Chester a delight, the recent movement toward inviting 
Nature to do her best has taken such a grip on the 
dear old place that in every available bit of ground a 
flowering shrub, a triangle of greensward, a climbing 
rose, is to be found. Not content with the beautiful 
park that winds in and out between the walls and the 
River Dee, and that boldly takes possession of one 
whole broadside of the busy town, with statues and 
fountains, avenues of pyramidal holly trees and blos- 
soming bushes, this damsel Nature, of whom Chester 
has made a sweetheart, comes stealing in beside the 
public buildings and business blocks, and takes full 
possession not only of little areas that front the street, 
but of the tiny plots of ground behind the smaller 
houses, which you look down upon with delight from 
your walk upon the walls. 

60 



EIGHT WEEKS 



And do you begin to think that these same walls 
are the charm I am going to skip? Oh, no, indeed; 
only I have such a fear of them, because they are 
beyond me to grasp or describe; sometimes they are 
low, sometimes high; sometimes reached by a slow 
incline and joining the drive that circles around the 
city within them; sometimes yielding in spots and 
sending a pleasant branch road off into the country; 
and sometimes reached only by long nights of worn 
steps, being as narrow and well protected by stone 
parapets as though they still belonged to the days of 
sieges and were guarded by sentinels in these watch 
towers day and night. 



Y 




What soul-satisfying views down upon the borders 
of the winding river and across its low-arched bridges 
of stone, with here a glimpse of the veritable old mill 
we have so often sung about ; and yonder a cluster of 
blue mountain peaks in far-away Wales! And at a 
certain point you look down into some bishop's gar- 
dens or some dean's school ; and here you descend, to 
follow a little path to the Anchorite's Cell, where a 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



legend has King Harold spend his last days, wounded 
but not slain in the battle of Hastings. 

And next you quite forget walls and park and River 
Dee when, before you rise the crumbling, ivy-grown, 
roseate stones of the old Abbey Church of St. John. 
In and out the ivy creeps, or hangs in massive dra- 
peries ; in the luxuriant greensward lie fragments 
of arches and capitals ; high against the unruined and 
restored parts of the church rise the broken arches of 
the ancient choir. Now, if you feel that you have had 
all the outdoor beauty you can digest, come with me 
inside the old Gothic porch, turn into the Norman 
nave, so simple and satisfying that you sit quietly 
down for a while without exclamations or inquiries, 
and listen to the sermon delivered to a congregation 
of children by a white-haired, white-robed rector, 
pretty dull at first, while he discusses in grown-up lan- 
guage the virtues of the Moabitess Ruth and her con- 
jugal rewards ; pretty lively a little later, when he turns 
from precept to rebuke of the naughty little girl who 
has failed to sit up and listen ; and most delightful to 
the young auditors when he closes with explanations 
in regard to an approaching excursion. Then follows 
the benediction, and the little lambs, having been 
instructed, reproved and exhorted, are hustled out of 
the pews by the pretty young ladies in charge, and 
take their way, two by two, down the dim aisles that 
have echoed to such various reproofs and exhortations 
in all the centuries since the days of King John. 

If my mind seems especially full of the memories of 
St. John's, and I say little about the cathedral whose 
mellow bells call us to worship early and late, let it 
be no slight upon that noble building. Not so large 
as many of its compeers, nor distinguished by any 
especial features, unless it be the pale and beautiful 
modern mosaics that line its lower walls, it is still 

62 



EIGHT WEEKS 



most satisfying for one's first cathedral. A realprince 
among cathedrals would be wasted upon one's first 
days. We, from the land of churches and meeting- 
houses, who think a house of worship is built with 
reference to its acoustic properties and its ability to 
give good seating room to a listening congregation, 
have first to familiarize ourselves with the terms nave 
and aisles, choir and intersection, transepts, triforium 
and clere-storey. We have to brighten up our archi- 




tectural memories on the subject of Romanesque, 
Gothic and Renaissance, pounding it into our noddles 
that this is their historic order; reminding ourselves 
also that the Romanesque of England is known as 
Norman, and the Renaissance often as Classic. We 
must learn also to admire both the proportions of the 
whole and the loveliness of the details; to delight in 
the carved groins of the Norman doorway, even when 
the rest of the faqade is unattractive; to lift up our 

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hearts with the upspringing arches of a Gothic in- 
terior ; to bask in the beauty of old stained glass ; to 
interest ourselves in carved choir stalls and mosaic 
floors ; to take pleasure in the elegant tracery of a 
choir screen, even if it does shut off a part of the 
grand view of the nave ; and above all, to put ourselves 
into sympathy with the worshipers who have found 
God in other ways than we, and who have been wont 
to seek Him alone upon their knees, instead of in the 
midst of a quietly seated congregation. Now we, you 
see, are not yet up to the level of that appreciation; 
and it was much better for us, when Chester Cathedral 
seemed to some of us not to reach the skies, to be 
told that it was just a good, typical, medium-sized 
Gothic minster with a square tower over the inter- 
section, as the English like to have it; and that, if we 
could not feel a solemn beauty and grandeur in that 
bronze-like interior, it befitted us to wander in and 
out of it until its beauty, like the ringing of its bell, 
should steal into our soul and prepare us for greater 
beauties yet to come. 

We have tried to keep Sabbath and rejoice in the 
Lord; but at the coming of the twilight we feel that 
there has been more of the rejoicing than of seventh- 
day rest, and we are ready for the daily Sabbath of 
a night's repose. 

Good night, and many dreams of a Fairyland as sat- 
isfying as Chester. 

M. 



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XI— COACHING AMONG THE LAKES. 

Monday, July 5. 
Well-beloved: 

There was once a time, and I can still remember it, 
when I did not know what or where the Lake Region 
of England was, nor what were its literary associa- 
tions. You will pardon me, then, if I fall back on the 
schoolmistress's privilege, and make believe that some 
one of you is also a little misty on these points. 

England, with all her loveliness, her abundant rivers 
and meadow brooks, is poor in lakes ; she might well 
cast an envious eye on the shining lochs of Ireland 
and Scotland, were it not for that one rare jewel of her 
own in the northwest, bordering on Scotland and the 
Irish sea, a grouping of the mountains and valleys of 
three counties known as the Lake Region. Cumber- 
land, Westmoreland and Lancashire here push their 
noses together close beside the sea, and among them 
furnish sixteen of the loveliest sheets of water to be 
found in many a long journey. The largest of them 
is but ten miles long — a third the length of our Lake 
George — and the mountains that rise in jagged peaks 
or sloping pyramids at their sides are scarcely as high 
as Massachusetts' Berkshire Hills ; but land and water, 
rocks and trees could not combine to make a more 
charming picture gallery. Just the pretty names are 
enough to set your fancy at work : Windermere, 
Grasmere and Thirlmere ; Coniston Lake and Coniston 
Old Man ; Bowness and Ambleside ; Rydal Water and 

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Rydal Mountain ; all these where the scenery is delight- 
ful in the south ; but toward the north abrupter crags 
and loftier peaks, fells and pikes and nabs and scars 
mirrored in Ullswater and Derwentwater and the 
smaller tarns, till it would seem that Nature had no 
grandeur reserved for any other lakes on earth. This 
region is entered by railroads at the north and south, 
but further than that the iron horse may not pass to 
thunder through the valleys and drop coal smoke upon 
the meadows ; so here all England comes to bike and 
hike in the vacations, to set up painters' easels or 
whirl along in touring cars. A century and more ago, 
about the time when Byron and his poet friends were 
making foreign travel a new fad by their poems from 
Switzerland and Italy, William Wordsworth decided 
that no regions had inspirations for him equal to those 
of his boyhood home; and his friends, Southey and 
Coleridge, settled near him there; De Quincey and 
Hartley Coleridge continued the tradition, and so arose 
the name Lake Poets, applied to the first three and 
their followers. All the countryside is full of their 
memories and their poems, as the meadows are of 
daisies. Here is Dove Cottage, associated with Words- 
worth's idyllic days of plain living and high thinking, 
with his sister Dorothy and the girl wife who was his 
"phantom of delight." Later it was filled to the ceil- 
ing with De Quincey's beloved books, and was a wit- 
ness of the years of his slavery and of his emancipation. 
Here is Rydal Mount, where Wordsworth spent his 
later prosperous days, and Grasmere Church, where 
he is buried; here are the hillslopes on which he 
watched the pretty Lucy, and yonder the banks where 
the daffodils waved that have ever since been "the joy 
of solitude." In Keswick, where summer conventions 
assemble every year to mingle Christian meditation 
with the teachings of Nature, Southey wrote his 

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voluminous histories and dashed off his matchless 
word picture of the Falls of Ladore. 

And now, suppose the weather should be inauspicious, 
and the Lake Region not at all what it has been rep- 
resented? But our beginning was good — our railway 
ride from Chester to Windermere; our lunch most 
excellent at the Windermere Inn ; and here was our 
four-in-hand coach, and our driver in scarlet, as 
though he had stepped out of an old English reading 
book, ready to give us choicest seats on the top of his 
old-time conveyance. I acknowledge a lurking fear 
that when I should take my place in that perilous posi- 
tion the coach would proceed to lurch into the ditch 
and disgrace its long and honorable record. But no 
disasters occurred, nor did a quiver of the old creature 
betray the fact that all the brains and brawn were on 
the top, and only some empty cushioned seats below. 

Now, put together all your memories of sunlight 
and shadow on steep hillsides, of reflections in limpid 
waters, of sloping banks always changing from flowers 
to vines, from vines to velvet greensward, and from 
greensward to pebbly shores ; fling up against the sky 
picturesque rocks seamed by storms, brown with old 
heather and yellow with gorse ; then scatter along their 
bases the thatches of cottages almost hidden in trees, 
gentlemen's parks, hotel lawns, dainty gardens, and 
climbing roses, red and white and alabaster yellow; 
how they climb and how they blossom ! and you will 
not wonder that the face of My Lady of the Star shone 
more and more, and that we felt she was voicing the 
feelings of us all when she cried out with a vivacity 
unusual for her, "Doesn't it seem to you all as though 
the one object of every person in this region was to 
make the world beautiful?" 

When our scarlet-coated driver made his first call 
at 3. wayside inn and stood chumming with mine 

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hostess at the door, his tall white hat atilt and one 
hand uplifted in gesture, we had no longer a doubt 
that we were all back in the above mentioned picture 
book. When he next stopped during our first pelting 
shower to show us the smallest church in England, 
and insisted on our alighting to inspect it and to drink 
a cup of tea at the cottage across the way, we began 
to wonder how often he, too, might need a refreshing 
draught; and when inns became more frequent, brief 
calls more necessary, his face, of the color of his coat, 
more genial — we almost felt like spoiling our glorious 
drive by setting a guard upon his actions; but what- 
ever his exhilaration he never forgot his art acquired 
through many years of practice, and brought us with 
an air of nothing less than princes down the narrow 
pavements of Keswick and, with a grand flourish of 
his four horses, up to the platform of the railway 
station. 

Episode number two : "Which one of you has that 
lunch that was put up for us in Windermere? Left 
in the coach? And the coachman off with his four 
horses? And the train for Edinburgh due at any 
moment? A cab, and the possibility of overtaking 
him ! Why, of course ; tell him he will remember that 
he put it inside, while we sat on top, and that he told 

us everything would be safe. And you have not 

brought the bundle? Could not be found? Nothing 
inside the coach ?" Oh, that villain in the scarlet coat ! 
with which of his tea-drinking hostesses is he now 
discussing those chicken wings and dainty rolls ! And 
here must we clean out this whole railway buffet of 
sandwiches, pork pie and plums to furnish us a scanty 
meal! 

A dark and rainy night to arrive in Edinburgh, and 
glad we are to see two dear familiar faces come out 
of the long ago right up before our railway window, 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



and to hear a friendly voice exclaim, "Yes, it's all 
right, letter received and carriages waiting." 

To-morrow for the glories of Auld Reekie ; so good- 
night, and especial love to all lovers of Wordsworth. 
I think some of you want his daffodils as a night-cap, 
coming as they do so fresh from the banks of Ulls- 
water. So here they are ! 




I wandered, lonely as a cloud, 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd 

A host of golden daffodils; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle in the milky way, 

They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay ; 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

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The waves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; 

A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company. 

I gazed and gazed, but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought. 

For oft, when on my couch I lie, 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 

They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the joy of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure thrills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 



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EIGHT WEEKS 



XII— AULD REEKIE. 




Et!i riD 



U JL3 



%?M 6 



It is quite reasonable for Auld Reekie (Old Smoky) 
to greet us with half a smile and half a frown. We 
should know that something was wrong if his skies 
were really blue ; although our Scotch friends say that 
that is frequently, or generally, the case in summer, 
and that we must not fall back on our old winter 
experiences when fogs come to stay, and coal smoke 
from all the houses of the city finds a soft gray couch 
to settle down upon. In any case the city is beautiful. 
Its glorious situation presupposes this fact, its struc- 
tures of solid stone, yet not too crowded for air and 
light, and surrounded with parks and private grounds, 
continue the good work; and, last of all, a recent 
movement toward civic adornment seems to have 
swept like a fairy with a wand through all this part of 
the country. 

I see that I have given you several heads that I must 
enlarge upon. Edinburgh is situated about two miles 
south of the Firth of Forth, on a series of rocky 
ridges running east and west. The most southern of 
these rises gradually to the west until it terminates in 



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the finest mass of precipitous rock that nature could 
invent or man admire. The sight of this rock, crowned 
by the historic Edinburgh Castle, and trailed all over 
by stories of marvelous scalings and hair-breadth es- 
capes, is a joy every time you look at it; and as it 
stands up bold and craggy, with bits of emerald vines 
and grasses waving from every available niche, and a 
violet atmosphere of its own lurking in every fantastic 
hollow, you forget from one glance to the next how 
beautiful it is, and turn away to cab drivers or shop 
windows just to have the luxury of a new surprise 
when you turn back again. This southern ridge con- 
tinues steadily east as High Street till it has passed 
beautiful St. Giles, has given sites for the old-time 
houses of the aristocracy — now dingy enough and 
given over to tenements for the poor — and for the 
opening of sundry "winds," narrow streets winding 
down to a lower level — and "closes," short streets with- 
out a thoroughfare; then, about the time it passes the 
old John Knox house with balcony and outside stair, 
it becomes Canongate, fronted by mansions that were, 
and Canongate and Tolbooth, and then it flattens quite 
out into the plain where stands old Holyrood Palace 
and the ruined aisles of Holyrood Abbey Church. But 
just here, where you think that grandeur has given way 
to beauty, you see beyond this foreground a noble 
sweep of precipitous rocks known as Salisbury Craigs, 
and behind them, partly embraced by them, the bold 
bare mountain of Arthur's Seat. These two always 
seem to be saying, "Come and climb me, come and 
climb me;" and they are down on our program for 
this, our first day. 

Ridge number two, an eighth of a mile, perhaps, 
north of the other, bears the pride of Edinburgh in its 
name of Princes Street, and in its long array of splen- 
did business blocks — most of all in the monument to 



72 



EIGHT WEEKS 



Sir Walter Scott, a lofty Gothic canopy of stone above 
the sitting statue of the author; and in the pillared 
height of Calton Hill, with which it terminates at the 
east. For this ridge rises to the east, as the other did 
to the west; and the monuments to Nelson, Dugald 
Stewart and the rest on Calton Hill are a lovely pend- 
ant and contrast to the old fortifications on Castle 
Rock. This unique street is also built up only on its 
northern side, its southern lying open to a series of 
parks and gardens that partly fill the valley between 
the two ridges. Through this valley also runs the 
railway, quite out of notice; and across it from High 
Street to Princes Street stretch the striking cause- 
ways of North Bridge and Waverley Bridge ; also the 
artificial "Mound," beautiful with some good Greek 
buildings and furnishing a pleasant winding drive for 
those who object to dizzy bridges. 

Now, north of Princes Street and George Street and 
Queen Street comes another valley full of grandeur, 
and another ridge, beautiful residence sections on and 
on into the country ; as, to the south, a still newer part 
of the city stretches out around the "Meadows" and 
through the "Grange," always streets of homelike 
houses of stone, and flowery gardens in front or at 
the rear. To us Americans there is too much of solid 
walls about these little lawns and gardens — too much 
locking of garden gates and ringing of garden bells, 
and waiting of visitors on the sidewalk; but at the 
same time there are more glimpses above this masonry 
and through these gates, of ivy in luxuriant masses, 
of greenest grass in gayest flower borders, and of 
roses, roses climbing everywhere, than could be found 
in half a dozen American cities. Partly the climate 
does this ; for the ivy is never frozen, the roses need 
not be laid down in winter, grass remains green under 
the short-lived snowdrifts, and droughts are rare ; but 

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partly it is the work of a great movement toward civic 
beauty which is being felt in all lands, and which 
warns us to do considerable hustling, or be left behind. 
In these respects there has been a wonderful advance 
since my visit of fifteen years ago. The convenient 
and unobtrusive wire basket "for papers and orange 
peel" which was attached to multitudinous corners in 
Chester, is following us all along the way; the beauti- 
fying of rear gardens, as well as of those in front, and 
of railway approaches, is striking ; and also the use of 
window gardens in business streets. We shall watch 
with interest to see how far this wand of Flora has 
waved ; and shall be thinking all the time : "How can 
we at home, in our northern states, with our six 
months of winter, accomplish something of the same 
kind?" A larger use of evergreens in our lawns; a 
winter trimming of verandas, and winter casing of 
tender plants with spruce or hemlock or fir, such as I 
used to see in Scranton some years ago, and a larger 
introduction of flower-trimmed windows to send a 
summer greeting into snowy or sloppy streets, would 
do much toward this end, and would seem more in the 
spirit of true citizens of the north, than merely to 
kindle blazing fires within and defy the cold in fur 
coats without. 

I am hardly leaving time to tell you that we vis- 
ited Edinburgh Castle, and were shown through its 
strongholds, its banqueting hall, with the big fire- 
place, its armory with an array of spears, swords, 
shields and helmets, all set in lovely clusters on the 
walls or on models of horses about the room — a much 
more satisfying sight, I should think, than the same 
polished steel starting out to stain itself in human 
blood — the little chapel where good Queen Margaret 
used to pray, and the tiny room where James the 

74 



EIGHT WEEKS 



First was born. We had the raciest of guides, an old 
soldier, who took us in hand with as much enthusi- 
asm as though we were his first party, and told his 
funny stories as naturally as though they had just 
occurred to him. We put down in our notebooks, 
"If it ever falls to your lot to act as a guide, try to 
do the task con amore." "Now, step right to this cor- 
ner, ladies, where you can get the best glimpse through 
the gate. Thank you. No, of course, those moats 
were never intended to be filled with water; they lie 
quite too high for that. This way a few steps, please, 
while one of our modern rubber-tires passes by !" — this 
as a lumbering old cart thundered over the pavement. 
"Yes, ladies, that is a portcullis ; rather unpleasant it 
would feel on one of your merry widow hats ; and here 
are the grooves where the big thing dropped, and the 
hinges for the huge gates, much larger than those of 
the present day. Oh, yes, they are shut every night 
at nine, more, I imagine, to keep the residents in than 
to keep the enemy out. Now this way, please, past 
these airy buildings where the soldiers are garrisoned ; 
I spent thirty years there myself, and on the occasion 
of an arrival of new troops from India, we lived snug 
for a while, you know. I should be inclined to think 
that little sardines in their boxes have roomy surround- 
ings compared with ours. No, I don't live in that 
building any longer; now I am old, as you see; so I 
walk at liberty and take pleasant ladies to see the 
prettiest sights. At noon, ma'am, that old gun will be 
fired ; a great source of pride, I dare say it once was 
to this castle ; but now I doubt whether the noise of it 
will permanently deafen you, and I am sure, if it were 
loaded with the balls it was intended to carry you'd 
be much safer in front of it than in any other place 
in its vicinity. Now this is 'Mons Meg,' the most 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



famous cannon of all, you know, and really a historic 
beauty; but it's quite beyond being of any use now, 
ladies — quite like myself, you see. Just look over the 
bit of a parapet there, where the soldiers have made 
a little triangular cemetery for their dogs. Soldiers 
are not all barbarians, you see, and they may love their 
dogs, even if they sometimes happen to shoot their 
fellow men. Yes, you'll find a good collection of pho- 
tographs inside, and I've no doubt the lady in charge 
will be willing to part with a dozen or two, just as a 
favor. No, there you're a little wrong, mum ; our 
Highland ladies don't seem to care as much for plaids 
as the gentlemen ; you'll find it's the Highland laddies 
that sport kilts and fox-tails, with gaiters laced about 
their ankles and plaids dangling over their shoulders; 
here come some of them now, in the little caps they 
call bonnets, marching to the sound of the bagpipes; 
a very pretty nasal music, ladies, that ought to suit 
you Americans. But the dress is inconvenient, to be 
sure, compared to the khaki suits of the English sol- 
diers ; however, it has established a reputation for pic- 
turesqueness, and even the army must do something, 
you know, to please the artists and the ladies. Good- 
day, ma'am, good-day; thank you very much. Amer- 
icans always know a good thing when they see it, and 
are willing to pay for it, too. Thank you, ma'am. 
Yes, ma'am, I was referring to the castle, you know." 
And after this followed St. Giles, Holyrood, the 
Queen's Drive, and a dinner party; all which I must 
reserve for to-morrow, when the barometer says we 
may expect rain. Please read up for yourselves all 
about the Scotch kings from Duncan, whom Macbeth 
killed, up and down ; and about Queen Mary, and Bos- 
well (not Johnson's Boswell), and Darnley and Rizzio; 
and pray that they may not jumble together in your 
brain as they do in mine. 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



Edinburgh is beautiful ; and Keats says that Beauty- 
is Truth, and Truth Beauty; so I hope that in some 
way my love of its beauty may lead you and me along 
the highroad of truth in our conception of it. 

Sincerely, 

M. 



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XIII— "A CUP OF KINDNESS." 




Tor a-vld laucj stjne. Cor a^uld. lancj sijtiCj 

We'll 'tak a CAxp of ki-ttdness^eb 
Tor tke dLaj^s of auld la*^ siL^ne 

Edinburgh, Thursday, July 8. 

To continue my story of Edinburgh, I must say to 
you that the apprehending part of our brain, and the 
retaining part are feeling a pretty severe strain; and 
as there is but one unfailing relief, a woman must at 
such times go shopping. Therefore, in my accounts of 
our brief days in Edinburgh, please throw in at your 
own discretion a shop — and when that fails to alle- 
viate the weariness, another shop. Later on come 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



more shops of a different character — cairngorms in- 
stead of plaids, stout traveling suits in place of cairn- 
gorms, and ever and anon photographs, picture pos- 
tals and more postals. 

To continue from our beginning at the castle ; we 
went next to beautiful St. Giles' in High Street, quite 
near to the old Parliament Buildings, used since the 
union of England and Scotland as law courts. The 
old prison, the Tolbooth of the city, made famous by 
Sir Walter Scott as The Heart of Midlothian, was 
also once close by, and its site is now marked by a 
heart in the pavement. 

St. Giles, a Greek cross in shape, with a royal crown 
of stone surmounting its central tower, is unique 
among churches; for, lacking the usual long nave of 
the Gothic, its four arms draw their aisles and 
traceried windows so near together as to form an 
enchanting grouping of pillars and arches lighted with 
gorgeous colors, and to make you wonder that other 
architects have not followed out the same plan. A 
crown is a worthy headstone for such a building. St. 
Giles has had a varied experience. It was early 
changed from Catholic to Presbyterian, in the days 
when John Knox thundered out his denunciations from 
its pulpit, and Jenny Geddes threw her stool at the 
dean who was reading the Church of England service 
to the ears of Scotch Covenanters. "Will he read the 
mass at me very lug (ear) ?" called she. Later it 
was partitioned off into four rooms to accommodate 
as many different factions of the Scottish church. But 
now it has returned to its original purpose, except — 
sad exception — that one must pay to enter it; for do 
you know, the famous churches of Europe are so 
flooded with visitors that they are beginning to decide, 
first, to charge a little pittance to pay the custodian 
who sweeps out these visitors' dust; secondly, to add 

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an honest penny for helping on the yearly repairs ; 
thirdly, to ask enough to pay the salary of the collector 
of these fees ; and fourthly, to consider a little revenue 
for the church itself. But waiving this difficult prob- 
lem, we pay our sixpences and delight in St. Giles. 

Then we find two willing cabmen who can look at 
the clouds through a drizzling rain and opine that "it's 
clearing fine, mum," and will not "be saft" very long; 
and, well wrapped in rain cloaks, we drive to Holyrood. 
There we walk through the portrait gallery of the 
Scottish kings and look up Duncan, Macbeth and 
Malcomb just as though we believed in cameras and 
reporters in those ancient days ; visit the private 
rooms of Queen Mary; admire the pillars of the 
roofless abbey, just being scraped of their blackness 
and restored to the condition of reputable ruin; and 
then find ourselves with great delight sweeping around 
the circle of the perpendicular Salisbury crags, past St. 
Anthony's Well and Hermitage ; gathering "whins" or 
yellow gorse from the rocky banks, and catching 
glimpses of the wide-spreading Forth, at one point 
even descrying a dozen miles away a speck against the 
sky, which means that wonderful construction of can- 
tilevers known as the Forth Bridge. All the while, 
as you follow the windings of the broad, smooth turn- 
pike, you have changing views of Edinburgh on one 
side, and on the other the grassy and rocky steeps of 
that mountain throne that is honored with the name of 
King Arthur. It is charming to see how many lands 
contend for the possession of that king of valor — Scot- 
land, England, Wales and Brittany — every one will 
have it that he belonged to it, that certain traditional 
names prove him to have set up here his round table, to 
have founded here his Camelot, to have set sail from 
here on his last voyage to Avalon. Even Germany has 
drawn upon the Arthurian legends to develop her tale 



EIGHT WEEKS 



of Parzival, and it speaks well for all these countries 
that in the heart-to-heart stories of their national child- 
hood they have had pride in this Christian king of 
"high erected thoughts set in a heart of courtesy." 

And so, by the way of Scottish rulers and British 
memories, we fetched a fine compass through rain and 
shine to Calton Hill and the monuments of Nelson 
and Burns, past art museums that we had no time to 
enter, and back to our boarding house to make such 
toilets as hand luggage allows for a Scotch dinner 
party. You have doubtless heard that the true Briton 
promises little and performs much ; that to a guest prop- 
erly introduced he shows hospitality unbounded. So we 
found it. Can you imagine eight women invited to a 
dinner party on the basis of an old friendship with 
three of them, and the Edinburgh clergyman not afraid 
to be a thirteenth to a hen party of twelve? And this 
thing continuing in other forms until it culminates in 
Scotch songs for our benefit at a genuine Scottish 
ingleside evening ? My Lady Practical had, of course, 
a lot of Scotch leanings and affiliations, even if she is 
not Scotch herself. She has a gift for leanings and 
affiliations, and leanings and affiliations have a recipro- 
cal tendency toward her. Of course, her mother used 
to read Scotch tales and sing Scotch songs, and the 
sweet prima donna of the evening could scarcely men- 
tion an old ballad that did not call up some memory to 
her. So we all reaped a benefit, and we eight women, 
who ought to have been at home packing our endless 
suit-cases and preparing for an early start, kept lin- 
gering for one more song, until "Jack of Hazeldean" 
and "Will Ye No' Come Back Again ?" made us ready 
for any dissipation, and found us, long after our pre- 
arranged hour, standing in a circle with crossed hands 
keeping time to Auld Lang Syne — faster and faster ; 
down with the clasped hands to beat the measures off ; 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



firmer the clasp and faster the beat — "For auld lang 
syne, for auld lang syne. We'll tak a cup of kindness 
yet, for auld lang syne." 

Now you see that Scottish hospitality has carried 
me a'rush through two days instead of one, and 
obliges me to state that the second of the two, when 
the heavens emptied themselves in fine style for our 
benefit, found us frequenting various fascinating 
shops, sampling the excellent lunches that could be 
obtained in department stores for a shilling; learning 
the difference between the clear yellow and violet 
topazes known as Cairngorms and the party-colored, 
opaque Scotch pebbles ; hearing over again the tale of 
Scotch plaids — how each several pattern belongs to a 
separate clan or family, "except, you know, mum, a 
few plaids that are modern, and really don't belong to 
any;" trying to meet in various departments and get- 
ting lost so often that My Lady of the Guide 
Book began to be a familiar figure gazing wildly 
about the deserted rainy-day stores, and answering the 
polite inquiries of the clerks, "Is there anything I can 
show you, mum?" with the smiling rejoinder, "A few 
ladies that I have lost, if you please." Joke while 
you can, My Lady ; the time will come before the fort- 
night is over when you will be among people of a 
strange tongue, and asking and replying will be no 
joking matter. 

We have discussed all the possible excursions that 
might have been put into this day if the heavens had 
smiled — a twelve hours' trip to that lovely region of 
Lochs Lomond and Katrine and the Trossachs, made 
familiar by Scott's "Lady of the Lake;" or, not so 
far, to Sterling Castle to see another great rock 
fortress associated with Wallace and Bruce, Doug- 
lases and Stuarts; or only out to the site of Forth 
Bridge; but weary bones and Edinburgh shops have 

82 



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prevailed, and we are off to-morrow to Melrose, sorry 
indeed to be turning our backs on the land of Scott 
and Burns. "And will ye no come back again? And 
will ye no come back again?" 

Good-night, and dreams with songs in them. 

M. 



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XIV— MELROSE AND ABBOTSFORD. 

Thursday, July 8. 

The end of a busy and rather tiring day, all the 
way from Edinburgh to Melrose. However, four of 
the party have energy to go on for the night to Dur- 
ham, while the rest remain in Melrose, visit the beau- 
tiful Abbey a second time, and select some choice 
photographs. Already our postal cards are begin- 
ning to make a heavy package, and we have a saying 
that certain of us are so anxious to secure photo- 
graphs of the notable sights as to leave no time for 
the sights themselves. It is a fact that a postal card 
window is about the first object to attract our atten- 
tion when we come to a new town. And what do 
these postals mean to us? Why, just about their 
weight in gold. When we get home every one will 
be an embodied memory. And what will they mean 
to our friends ? In anticipation, much ; in reality, very 
little. Have you ever tried handing an album of your 
choicest views to a friend to entertain him or herself 
with in your absence? No matter how short the 
time, on your return you will find the book laid quietly 
aside, and few questions asked about its contents. 
But if, instead, you begin to look over that book with 
your friend, and give a running comment on each 
view, at the end of half an hour you will still have an 
interested audience, and be thought to have made a 
remarkable collection. And how do you explain it? 
Why evidently we every one of us have imagination 

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enough to carry us to foreign countries or distant cen- 
turies if only a good story teller will help us out a 
bit. But how shall we keep this faculty doing its 
work without the help of an outsider? For imagi- 
nation is about the most useful faculty we have, next 
to perception and memory and a little common sense. 
Imagination makes all the difference between a nar- 
row horizon and a broad ; between a sympathetic per- 
son and one that is self-centered. Who is the man 
that has admirers among his employees? The one 
that can easily put himself in their places. Who is 
the woman that is found charming by all who come 
in touch with her? The woman that really touches 
them, because she takes their standpoint and enters 
into their interests. What faculty did our Lord call 
for when He gave us the Golden Rule? and good, 
practical Confucius in his negative rule of six hun- 
dred years before? This same faculty that makes it 
possible for us to look through another man's eyes. 
Now we eight are having a tremendous drill in exer- 
cising our imaginations. A guide takes us around the 
country seat of Abbotsford, or the Cathedral of Dur- 
ham. We knew that our attention and our memory 
would have a severe strain ; but look at the burden 
that is being thrown upon our imaginations Either 
they must shirk, or be crushed, or get up their muscle 
in short order. My Lady Persistent has taken for 
her motto, "I want to get just as much out of this 
trip as is possible for me." You see she modestly 
refrains from saying, "As much as there is in it;" 
for she knows that we have each to act according to 
our abilities. And we all admire her watchword 
and hope that to a certain extent we are making it 
our own; but how to be able to put ourselves into 
the place of the architect who wrought the beautiful 
window of Melrose Abbey, called the "crown of 

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thorns ;" and also of the monks who went in and out 
of the stately Abbey, felt its beauty steal into their 
souls, and all the time followed out strict rules of 
obedience and silence, doing penance by day, and ris- 
ing all night at the bell's call to say their prayers? 
And how to feel in touch with Sir Walter Scott, who 
could see life from the standpoint of a world of peo- 
ple of all stations, and yet, in his heart of hearts, 
could not be happy till he had acquired an estate and 
a title ! However much we may sneer at this last little 
foible, we cannot help feeling its force; for who can 
speak of the great author without his title? Try to 
say Walter Scott, instead of Sir Walter, and convince 
yourself of the truth of my statement. Therefore, for 
our notebooks this entry : "When you find yourself 
an utter alien to your surroundings, be it in the mar- 
ket-place, the cathedral, or the ruined castle, rub up 
your imagination till it shines, and never give up until 
you can look through it and put yourself in the other 
man's place." 

During which digression we have been speeding 
down by train to Melrose through the loveliest country 
you could desire to see; not only the natural beauty 
of hills and pastures, moors and forests, but the beauty 
made greater by the sympathetic hand of man, who 
crowds in pretty ideas of his own where Nature feels 
inclined to scrimp. The railway stations are a con- 
stant delight, adapted in size and pretension to the 
towns they represent, but always accompanied by lit- 
tle gardens that keep the railway travelers craning 
their necks and crying out for delight. 

Also in little Melrose, built mostly close upon its 
paved streets, and giving few opportunities for Nature 
to make a showing, her rights are secured in corners 
so tiny that it makes you laugh and rejoice. Here we 
go, along the most arbitrary twisting highways, with 



EIGHT WEEKS 



walls of brick houses and stables turning them into 
canals ; yet beside the gate of this walled-in garden 
are two little triangles set back from the sidewalk, 
and holding each a flowering shrub; at the entrance 
to this old church is just room for an ivy that makes 
one of its brick walls a thing of beauty; and over 
the thatched cottage where we pay our sixpence to be 
let in to the Abbey ruins, a climbing rose blossom as 
though the whole town depended on it for color and 
fragrance. 

The ruins themselves rise stately and graceful in 
their pale pink sandstone, the broken arches of the 
aisles giving you vistas that rouse this same imagi- 
nation to glorious flights. The old cloisters around 
the grassy court, all set with roses and ferns, send 
you pacing round and round them with thoughts of 
rosaries and breviaries, and the gravestones set thick 
in the grass outside call you to read their worn 




MELROSE ABB£Y 
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EIGHT LANDS IN 



inscriptions, where more roses bend to give loving 
kisses. 

Do you have a clear idea of a cloister ? Suppose an 
ancient monastery, built on three sides of a court, 
the monastery church closing the fourth, and this 
court faced all around with a continuous porch or 
colonnade, in which the monks may walk to say their 
prayers, and under the pavement of which their aged 
bodies will eventually be buried. These cloisters — and 
the word really means enclosures — gave an opportunity 
to the builder to follow out the architectural beauties 
of the church in elaborate pillars and arches with ever 
varied tracery, like that of the church windows, only 
not set with glass; and the little grass plot enclosed 
was usually made a thing of beauty with vines and 
flowers, and often a fountain. You see, these old 
monks, or their priors, had marvelous ideas of a 
union of grandeur and severity, beauty and self-de- 
nial; a separation from the world along with an in- 
dulgence of many of the tastes that this naughty 
world approves; elegant libraries and dining halls, 
which last they called refectories, beside of the tiniest 
of gloomy cells opening out of narrow corridors, and 
the plainest of fare, not inconsistent with choice old 
wine cellars. I confess that our imaginations find it 
staggering. 

Among the irregular stones of this pavement My 
Lady Bright Eyes discovers one inscribed, "The Heart 
of Bruce;" and here is another spur to the historic 
sense as well as to the more airy faculty. Like many 
other places that we visit, we say of this, "If we had 
a week here we might accomplish something ;" and then 
we take the big carry-all through a lovely landscape to 
Sir Walter Scott's estate of Abbotsford, and are again 
torn in twain by our desires to be reasonably loyal to 
Sir Walter, and our impatience of the demands made 

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upon us. We are driven from drawing-room to study, 
and from study to bedroom, in a crowd of visitors who 
sway in great waves first to this chair of carved teak, 
the present of one of the Georges — then to yonder 
portraits of the author's daughters — then to the grate 
of Archbishop Sharp, who was killed at St. Andrew's 
— and next to the carved oaken chest in which the real 
Ginevra lost her life, according to the familiar tale. 
Thirty-two tourists can exhaust the oxygen in a 
medium-sized room much faster than they can exhaust 
the facts about it, and on a July day we soon find our- 
selves not caring a rap which one of Sir Walter's 
daughters lived an old maid, which chair was of ebony 
and which of teak, and whether the good man came 
down or went up a certain winding stair at half-past 
eight of every morning. "Or, was it at half-past ten?" 
"And have you that down in your notebook?" The 
good Fates deliver us from ever being so famous that 
our residence has to be turned into a museum to 
make the heads of tourists ache as ours ache now. 
And probably the good Fates will hear our prayer. 

Abbotsford and Melrose are about five miles apart, 
Melrose being the railway station, and a snug little 
town with the ruined Abbey at its edge, Abbotsford 
being merely a large estate with a castle-like mansion 
upon which Sir Walter Scott spent thousands of pounds 
to turn Clarty Hole into its high-sounding successor ; 
and there he had the happiness of receiving foreign 
guests and home princes, and of gathering a lot of 
costly memorabilia that gradually turned it into a 
museum. When the crash of his fortunes came he 
closed his beloved villa, took modest lodgings in Edin- 
burgh, and began that tremendous labor of constant 
writing that cleared off his debt and ruined his health, 
so that with an unblemished name he could come back 
to Abbotsford to die. In the splendid ruined Abbey 

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of Dryburgh, some five miles to the north, his body 
was laid to rest under the pavement trodden so often 
by his never-resting feet. We wished we might see 
the grave and the remarkable ruins ; but here was a 
fine opportunity to cultivate the skipping habit, and 
we have made a virtue of necessity. 

Abbotsford is now a national museum, and we are 
glad to have surveyed conscientiously its elegant rooms, 
its carvings, its latticed windows, its tiled and deco- 
rated fireplaces, its library, galleries, and winding 
stairs ; and we are glad to remember that stout English 
matron who refused to be hurried in furnishing her 
thirty-two tourists with tickets, in punching every one 
conscientiously at the dining-room door, and in insist- 
ing that each man and woman of the crowd should 
see every gift of crockery and every family portrait, 
dropping her h's most charmingly all the time, and 
gathering them up again whenever an initial vowel 
gave a choice point of attachment. "Hi wouldn't wish 
hany of you to think, Sur, that A 'ad 'urried you 
through these sacred rooms, or that there was hany of 
these hantiquities wich you 'adn't 'ad a hopportunity 
to see, Sur." 

We are glad to have visited the beloved home of a 
great and good man ; and if there shall ever come to 
any of us honors commensurate with the small "work 
of our hands," we don't care if our friends' heads do 
ache in the attempt to show their appreciation. 

Some of us go on to-night to Durham ; but the story 
must wait until to-morrow. Please dream not of 
brass-bound chests, carved chests, Ginevra's chest, 
but of arches grey and pink and ivy-grown, and of 
roses blossoming among ruins, and read a good bit 
from Sir Walter's poems, for my sake. 

M. 



90 



EIGHT WEEKS 



XV— DURHAM ON ITS HILL. 
On the Morning Express to York. 

Friday, July 9. 

Dearly beloved: 

Can you visit two great cathedrals in one day and 
be neither overpowered nor helplessly mixed? They 
are as different as you and I, the Norman Durham 
on its hill, and the Gothic York in the middle of its 
ancient city; and if you will make a break between 
the two of a three hours' journey and a hotel lunch, I 
think we can manage it. 

I cannot turn my thoughts to either of these houses 
of God without an inrushing tide of wondering and 
grateful memories ; memories of what they mean to 
me, as pictures in my mental gallery, and memories 
of what they have meant to the world. Next to ven- 
erable Canterbury, where we hope to worship ten 
days from now, they seem to me the greatest light- 
houses of early Christian missions to be found in 
Great Britain. York is the older in its beginnings, 
the original church having been hastily built by Bishop 
Paulinus as a place of baptism for his royal convert, 
King Edwin. Christianity was creeping in from the 
south. St. Augustine had converted the King of Kent 
from paganism ; now his missionary, Paulinus, accom- 
panying a Kentish princess to her new lord in North- 
umbria, had met with similar success. Durham, on 
the other hand, was three hundred years later, and 
had its origin in the missionary work of those follow- 
ers of St. Patrick who had come across the south of 

9 1 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

Scotland and established monasteries on the north- 
east coast of England. The converts of Paulinus had 
been so harried by invading Danes as to be hardly able 
to keep their own little light ablaze, and these zealots 
from the longer established Church of Ireland had 
come to their aid at an opportune time. Their greatest 
leader had been St. Cuthbert, about fifty years later 
than Paulinus; and it was as a burial place worthy 
of such a missionary hero that they founded the so- 
called "Abbey" of Durham. 

A strange thought it is to us, that of missionaries to 
England. The "introduction of Christianity" has al- 
ways stood for some vague fact in our school books, 
but now that we are associating it with these moun- 
tains of choice master building, we begin to ask our- 
selves just what it means, and how clear an account 
we can give of it ; and thus we revise our knowledge 
on the train to York : 

Christian churches had undoubtedly been estab- 
lished in Britain during the years of Roman occupa- 
tion ; and we know that King Arthur, a Celtic prince 
opposing the incoming Anglo-Saxons, is always rep- 
resented as a Christian king fighting against pagans. 
It was our ancestors, the Anglo-Saxons, of whom we 
are so proud, who gave Christianity its first great set- 
back through destroying churches as well as castles 
and city walls. After they had ruled England for a 
century and a half, gaining civilization from the 
very people they had conquered and from the 
responsibilities of government, St. Augustine brought 
the gospel from Rome, being sent by Pope Gregory 
the Great, 597 A. D. Fifty years later Bishop 
Paulinus carried the glad tidings to Northumbria, of 
which York was the capital. Fifty years after this, 
amidst many perils from the terrible Danes, St. Cuth- 
bert and the monks of Holy Isle followed up the good 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



work, having come, as I have said before, by way of 
Scotland from Ireland, the so-called "Island of the 
Saints." 

In the two minsters, then, that we visit to-day we 
reach out our hands to those great and helpful hands 
that brought the bread of life to our pagan ancestors. 
Some of us have been in the way of thinking it a 
considerable waste of money, energy and human lives 
to send the Gospel where it received but scant wel- 
come — to displace the picturesqueness of naked 
savagery by the commonplace of western Christianity ; 
but such enterprises wear a different aspect to us when 
we think of them as the means of turning our sturdy 
brutal grandparents from the worship of Odin and 
the destruction of civilization, to the life of law-abid- 
ing citizens. Well for them and for us that the saints 
of the sixth century believed in foreign missions. 

And so, while trying to clear up the historic back- 
grounds for our two cathedrals, we have been speeding 
away from quaint little Melrose and its neighbors of 
Weems and Hawick and Jedburgh, speeding on 
through the famous Scottish Border, a land enriched 
with the blood of fratricidal wars and adorned with 
tales of clan this and clan that and all their ancestral 
feuds in behalf of bonnie lasses and doughty braves — on 
our return to merry England. Look at the stone walls 
dividing field from field, and at the frequent circles 
of stone, open at one side, that constitute the sheep- 
folds. See the station mistress, who supplants the sta- 
tion master at the smaller places, standing with flag- 
staff of office in her hand, proud in her consciousness 
of authority and in her shining copper-toed shoes. 
Here blackfaced sheep are a specialty of the farmers ; 
yonder, wire fences are pushing out the old stone 
dykes ; and now, look, look at our roadbed banks, all 
white with the blossoms of "snow in summer !" 



93 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



Long, long ago, when first we started on this rail- 
way tour — six days, you say ? Impossible ! Calendars 
are such unreliable chroniclers. Well, in those first 
days we were somewhat chagrined to find that we were 
booked to travel through Great Britain in third-class 
carriages. But in general we have found them most 
comfortable — the upholstering a little dingy, no 
white antimacassars behind our heads, and five people 
to each settee instead of four. In many trains there 
is no second-class, and travelers of economical tenden- 
cies all go by the third. We soon adapted ourselves 
to the British notion that compartments — that is, cross- 
wise divisions with each its own entrance — must exist, 
or the foundations of the Kingdom be undermined ; we 
canvassed our eight to know who could be depended 
on to see the world backwards without a resulting 
headache, and we also learned that here, as in most 
cases of clouded skies, there is a silver lining; for 
eight people, you see, just fill a compartment without 
a bit of crowding; and there is a law in England, 
emanating either from the railway companies or from 
High Parliament, whereby if you send a postal card to 
the station master on the day previous to your de- 
parture, you can have your compartment, or your rea- 
sonable share of it, reserved for you so far as you 
choose to specify. This, for us, has been glorious; 
and on every occasion when we have bethought us to 
write our postal in time, to specify the train, the day, 
the class, the name of the party, and finally to mail 
this accurate card, presto-change, up has come the 
compartment all right, a box for Jack, instead of a 
Jack-in-the-Box, the white label "Reserved" pasted 
aslant its window, and our name in pencil underneath. 
Mark you, however, that before securing such a com- 
partment we have had six chances each time of fall- 

94 



EIGHT WEEKS 



ing foul of it, all of which we successfully and suc- 
cessively tried, grumbled dutifully at the British gov- 
ernment, and discovered, with abasement, that we had 
only ourselves to blame. 

But why do I linger so long in a third-class car- 
riage when on my way to glorious Durham ? Because 
on the morning express of the North Eastern Rail- 
way we have reached the ne plus ultra of such a con- 
veyance. We have windows as wide as for an excur- 
sion car, glass that drops without a murmur, and the 
finest of wire screens to cover the ventilators ; also a 
table to let down between every two seats, for in this 
car there is a partial giving way of partitions, so that 
through a corridor at one side we can overflow into 
neighboring compartments ; whole clusters of electric 
lights ready for evening, and racks so capacious as 
to make our suit-cases appear like airy nothings. 

At this point we have just rumbled through New- 
castle on Tyne, and glad we are to have left it behind 
us ; for to whirl suddenly from fields, gardens and 
vine-covered cottages into miles and miles of solid 
brick walls, house on house, monotonous paved street 
on street, brick enclosed areas by the acre, with 
not a green thing to be seen ; and this in the home of 
ten thousands of women and children, as well as men, 
not one of them able to escape from these dungeon 
homes except to noisy dungeon factories — this is to 
be plunged into the pit right here in Fairyland. Alas 
and alas ! We hope there are parks somewhere within 
reach of these working districts ; a chance for Sunday 
walks where there is a tree and some grass ; some 
playgrounds for growing children. The Playground 
Association is hard at work on this side the ocean, and 
we are told that we shall see more of it across the 
channel. O, good fairy, who loves little children, 

95 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

forget not the poor of your great centres of industry 
because your hands are so full with the entertainment 
of us travelers ! 

Here come the hedgerows once more, sometimes of 
privet clipped close, sometimes of hawthorn, white 
with blossoms before we came, and later to be red 
with haws ; often of a mingling of all sorts of shrubs 
like our rail-fence growths at home, only that here the 
charming creatures are invited to be permanent set- 
tlers, with no fear of a sudden notice to quit. Such 
hedgerows are the prettiest possible division of fields, 
and wherever a stronger barrier than the shrubs is 
needed, an unobtrusive fence of wire or wood running 
down the middle supplies the want. Every kind of 
shrubby flower may here climb up in sight; brambles 
may flaunt their thorny branches, and ferns, anem- 
ones and violets may snuggle comfortably along the 
protecting edges. Give us some hedgerows, too, some 
authorized hedgerows, to us who have the blood of 
England in our veins. 

But see, yonder is the great hill of Durham Cathe- 
dral, rising up across the River Wear. Eyes to the 
east now, and look with all your faculties, so that 
those of us who have been lodging at Melrose may be 
able to make believe that we also have had a night 
and a morning in the Church of St. Cuthbert ; for — 
let me break it to you gently — this elegant express 
train does not stop at Durham, and what shall we do ? 
Oh, here is the advantage of being eight. Four of 
us have actually done this thing, so that it is all in the 
family ; and My Lady in Green has been put under 
bonds to write it all out for our later perusal. 

Near the station lies the city, and beyond it, circled 
by a loop of the river, is the lofty site that invited the 
monks of Lindisfarne to set down there the coffin of 
St. Cuthbert, which they had carried with them from 

96 



EIGHT WEEKS 




Iz^hl 



: ^3 ■ 





b^j 






"Durham- on. ih Hill. 

place to place for a hundred years in their flight from 
the Danes, and to erect over his grave the original 
church of which this one, begun in 1093, was the direct 
successor. For with the Norman Conquest archi- 
tecture received a great impulse, and not only were 
massive castles established all over the land as strong- 
holds for the new dynasty, but also the churches of 
Anglo-Saxon times were replaced by others of greater 
size and beauty. So William the Conqueror erected 
here a castle which, with many later additions, stands 
to-day, and has become the seat of the Durham Uni- 
versity ; and twenty years later his titled bishop — the 
prelates of Durham and Ely having been made earls 
as well as bishops — began to replace the Church of 
the Lindisfarne monks by the present splendid struc- 
ture. 

Firm as its foundation rock the Abbey stands, its 
lofty square tower dominating the landscape, its choir 
and transepts, nave and Galilee chapel reaching out 

97 



EIGHT'LANDS IN 



like the hands of some great angel laid upon a wor- 
shiping people. Could it be any finer seen from close 
at hand? More beautiful in detail, of course, but 
hardly more impressive. The same violet shadows 
that haunt Edinburgh Rock are lying in the valley, 
and the gold of morning is on the uprising towers. So 
the great and good deeds of far-away saints rise from 
legendary shadows, and stand strong and golden, our 
models and our inspiration. 

In York we shall meet the happy four who have 
held closer communion with the men and monuments 
of Durham, and they shall tell us such vivid tales as 
to strengthen us in the belief that we have been there, 
too. 

^f. ;): ;): s|e =f= >f: 

It was on this trip that the Lady in Green had 
her innings ; for it was she who marshaled half of the 
party to Durham, while the rest stayed with headaches 
at Melrose. She first distinguished herself by insist- 
ing that when you are in Rome you should do as the 
Romans do; so henceforth baggage is to be denomi- 
nated luggage; and, instead of taking the suit-cases 
into the compartment with us, they are to be marked 
and put into the luggage van. Emancipated, then, 
from these impedimenta, and — whisper it under your 
breath — from the tyranny of the Lady of the Guide 
Book, this quartette merrily took train from Melrose, 
and enjoyed every stage of the accommodation which 
carried us through the long northern twilight from 
one English village to the next. It was dark as we 
reached New Castle, with its endless rows of elec- 
tric lights. And here we changed to an express train 
and made the short run to Durham without a stop. 
Dismounting at ten minutes past ten o'clock, the 
emptiness of the long stretch of platform, the quiet 
that reigned as our train disappeared, the sleepiness 

98 



EIGHT WEEKS' 



of the one porter, were somewhat disconcerting even 
to the Lady in Green; and the reiterated assertion, 
"There is no luggagge 'ere, ma'am," and "Ho, no, 
ma'am; there'll be no cabs 'ere hat this hour of the 
night, ma'am," might have left us indefinitely tarrying 
on that station platform, had not an interested party 
of fellow travelers shown us the way out and helped 
us to pack and squeeze with them into the two small 
cabs sent from the hotel to meet the two parties of 
defenseless women. 

At the Gray Lion or Red Mouse, or whatever inter- 
esting animal we were lodging with for the night, we 
had two new experiences before going to sleep. First, 
we were offered tiny glasses of the excellent brandy 
for which the house is famous ; and second, we found 
that in Durham, a city of 15,000 inhabitants, it is 
impossible to send a telegram between 8 in the even- 
ing and 8 the next morning. "Yes, madam, Hi 
can give you a telegraph blank, but you won't be hable 
to send it hoff before height to-morrow morning." 
"Not from the hotel, perhaps, but could I not send the 
messenger down to the night office ?" "Ho, no, 
madam, the posthoffice closes at height o'clock." An 
appeal is made from the office clerk to the smiling 
hostess, and she, though without supernumerary h's, 
affirms the same thing. So the Lady in Green, who 
is reputed to have a head for figures, comforts the 
rest of her quartette with the assurance that the miss- 
ing luggage has been left at New Castle by that 
superior express train and will appear all right at the 
station the next morning; and with this poor conso- 
lation, and such resources as the small handbags of- 
fer, we worry through or sleep through the night, 
and all appear at breakfast with loins girded for a 
visit to our first great Norman Cathedral. 

Up we go through the winding streets, which grow 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



narrower and steeper as they and we ascend, and out 
onto the wide cathedral square, broadside to the noble 
building. The Lady in Green does her best to retrieve 
any prestige lost with the lost luggage. Determined 
that the Lady in Blue shall appreciate that Durham 
Cathedral is a trifle larger than a certain beloved First 
Church at home, she marches the company entirely 
around the building before allowing them to enter it, 
discoursing on round arches, small windows, arcaded 
cornices, the thick walls that do not need external but- 
tresses, and the genuineness and simple honesty of it 
all, until she and they have reached the right glow of 
expectancy; then she leads them to the modest side 
portal and steps back to catch their expression of won- 
der and surprise. And the Lady of the Veil, at least, 
does not disappoint her. With the sunlight streaming 
in at the small windows and making a luminous dusk 
through the whole interior — those great cylindrical 
columns with their different zigzag patterns, standing 
like towers of strength under the low, round arches, 
the changing vistas as you move from place to place — 
always a nearby column between you and the most 
interesting point in the distance — an interior that looks 
as though it had been hewn out and not builded — 
hewn out, oh, so lovingly and skillfully, with every 
thought and purpose that of doing the best and brav- 
est and biggest possible — who could be disappointed 
in Durham? 

And when a verger came who loved the old place, 
and who caressed the stone over the tomb of the Ven- 
erable Bede, and at the other end of the church showed 
us how in the old days the coffin of St. Cuthbert was 
once a year raised from its burial place under the 
choir, and "the silver music of the chains that lifted 
it" was heard by all the kneeling congregation, then 
the Lady in Green wished that the Lady of the Guide 

ioo 



EIGHT WEEKS 



Book were only there to hear herself outdone in his- 
tory and ancient lore and high enthusiasm. 

This delightful verger really interested us in the 
statistics of the church, 510 feet long, 80 wide, 70 
high; begun in 1093 A. D. and finished in 1480; an 
Abbey, with a blue marble cross set in the pavement 
by the second pillar from the west end, beyond which 
women might not go; and its beautiful east end choir 
with the nine altars in a row, background to the 
shrine of St. Cuthbert. Protestantism has done away 
with the shrine, and the original level of the choir floor 
has been changed ; but by looking into certain black 
holes one sees the bases of the columns, and the verger 
reconstructs for us the older choir and fills it with 
bishops, priests and monks ; with a crowded congre- 
gation of men on the lower level of the nave, and the 
worshiping women in the far distance. He tells us 
how the Lady Chapel should have been back of this 
choir, how it was begun there, and how every night 
the work of the day before was mysteriously thrown 
down, until it was at last borne in upon the obtuse 
minds of the authorities that the holy St. Cuthbert 
was not going to tolerate the near proximity to his 
tomb of any woman — not even the blessed Virgin 
Mary. So the Lady Chapel was degraded to the west 
end of the church, where it is called the Galilee Chapel 
■ — Galilee of the Gentiles, as being outside of the sacred 
precincts ; but here it was built with wonderful clover- 
leaf arches, so ornamented and crowded together that 
the effect is florid, almost Moorish. And here is the 
tomb of the Venerable Bede, that first of English 
church historians, beloved by his pupils, beloved by 
all the ages since. And it was an angel, you remem- 
ber, who carved in this stone the adjective venerable 
when the pupil who was set to cut the inscription had 
stopped in despair of finding the word which should 

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at the same time properly characterize his master and 
fit into the rhythm of his Latin lines : 

Hac sunt in fossa 
Bedae venerabilis ossa. 

And it was in this room that the Lady in Green — 
almost the senior of our party — when she asked the 
verger where she could find a cab to take her to the 
railway station, being minded to look up that missing 
luggage or perish in the attempt, received the reply, 
"Why, my dear girl, you are nearer to the station than 
you are to any cab." That being the case, she left the 
rest to look up photographs, and tripped as youth- 
fully as she knew how down a winding path under 
the trees and below the foundations of the cathedral, 
across the river Wear on a foot-bridge, and up the 
other bank. At a perplexing forking of the paths she 
met a slip of an English girl who gave her the right 
turning, climbed a steep street, and found the familiar 
suit-cases on the platform of the station, as she had 
prophesied. So merrily again on to York, and in the 
great minster there, headaches left behind and luggage 
all right, our party was reunited, and the reins were 
again passed into the hands of the Lady of the Guide 
Book. 

* * * Later, at the King's Arms in little War- 
wick, four of us in one palatial room with two mahog- 
any tester bedsteads and other furnishings to match; 
two feeble candles to throw this splendor into chiaro- 
oscuro, and outside, in the court below, a chattering 
of coachmen and maids that calls me away from my 
half-discerned manuscript. 

Now are you not glad, dearly beloved, that for once 
in your life you have consented to be inconsequential, 
inconsistent, absurd, by putting yourself in two places 

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at once? You went to Durham on the evening train 
with the four persistents, had all the fun of the 
crowded coach and the missing luggage, saw the 
Abbey at its best, and also came whizzing down with 




us laggards next morning on that model express right 
past the hilltop vision and on to famous York. At 
present you are at Warwick — at least we are, and we 
are taking account of our whereabouts. We have 
come to-day some three hundred miles from Scotland 

103 



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and the very northeast of England to a point pretty 
far south and west. What are we leaving unvisited, 
and why? All the eastern half except what we shall 
see when we finish our English tour with London and 
Canterbury; and that includes a splendid row of 
cathedrals, Lincoln, Peterboro and Ely; also the Uni- 
versity of Cambridge, and, of course, a lot of great 
cities much more important to manufacturers and com- 
merce than to the art- and history-loving traveler. 
We have turned our back on these, not because we 
love them less, but because we love Shakespeare 
more, and must see the city of his birth and death, 
and the famous castles that were his commonplaces in 
the days of his education. In coming thus across coun- 
try we have really been traveling almost due south, 
and about half-way here we made our stop at York, 
the ancient capital of the Roman province of 
Britain, the seat of the Archbishop of England, and 
the site of the cathedral that for grandeur and com- 
pleteness ranks first in the land. 

Now, when you stopped there with us, did you 
yawningly say, "Alas, another cathedral ! and what's 
the difference between them, any way? And when 
shall we come to an end ?" Perhaps so ; but if that is the 
case with you or with any of our eight, we evidently 
need more cathedrals, or a better way of looking at 
them. We have already learned our little repertoire 
of architectural terms, and can make some kind of a 
picture to ourselves when our guide-book says Nor- 
man, "Yes," we repeat, "that is English Romanesque; 
round arches, arcaded frieze" — or Gothic, and we 
answer, "Pointed arches, traceried windows and tow- 
ers ;" — or classic, to which we say, "Another name for 
Renaissance, with all those little gabled windows, big 
cornices, and a dome." Also we have put away in 
our memories two approximate dates, 1150 and 1550. 

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Before the first of these the Romanesque prevailed; 
between the two, the Gothic ; after the latter, the Ren- 
aissance. "Transitional" refers, of course, to the bor- 
der lands between these, "Tudor" and "Elizabethan" 
being variations of the transition from Gothic to 
Renaissance; and Jacobean and Queen Anne, varia- 
tions of late Renaissance. 

With this rude architectural furnishing in hand, 
what shall we look at to make our minds help our 



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VoRK 



INSTER. 
105 



EIGHT LANDS' IN 



souls? Our minds demand facts, our souls, inspira- 
tions. 

First, I think, we have learned to crane our necks 
for a sight of the cathedral from afar. While all the 
city houses, business blocks, manufactories, ordinary 
churches — everything but a few furnace chimneys or 
grain elevators lie low in the oncoming toy city, up 
rises our cathedral from their midst, a massive sil- 
houette against the sky, towers, roofs, spires, as it 
may be, so that we grasp it as a whole. We shall 
never see it quite in its entirety and immensity again 
until we are once more upon the train, speeding away 
from it. Next we watch it grow upon us from our 
whirling cab — now a bit of the great tower, now a 
gable up this narrow street, now a portal right before 
us, and here we are, gazing up at the great fagade, 
having our first impression of splendid proportions 
and unity, or, perhaps, of a little lack in these, and 
taking in rapidly the charm of Norman doorway or 
of Gothic portals and rose window, and promising our- 
selves a stack of photographs of all those enthroned 
saints. Next we enter; and here there is little choice, 
as usually only one door is open. But whether we are 
introduced directly to the nave, or approach it through 
a vestibule or one of the aisles, let us turn our facul- 
ties first of all to the great vaults above our heads, to 
the great spaces stretching out before us, to the ave- 
nues of pillars and to the soaring dome or lantern — to 
everything that says to us, "Sursum corda;" for that 
is the first and the last word of every cathedral, "Lift 
up your hearts;" and if we are not ready to respond, 
"We lift them up unto the Lord," that cathedral is 
wasted upon us. Above all, let us not fritter away 
our time and our sentiments on some archbishop's 
tomb or some spangled reredos until we have taken 
in the whole, or, rather, have poured ourselves out 

106 



EIGHT WEEKS 



into the whole. If we find that we have been on pil- 
grimage, and that this is our shrine, happy for us. If 
there are discords in color or shape that jar upon us, 
forget them if we can in the great entirety ; and when 
we have time and feeling left over from that, look up 
the archbishop and the reredos, the altar pieces and 
the Easter candlestick, the carved pulpit and stalls, 
and the stained glass of which we have all the time 
been feeling the warmth and fantasy; but ever and 
anon let us turn suddenly from the near details and 
allow the great whole to astonish us anew. My Lady 
in Blue says that her near-sightedness is a great draw- 
back in appreciating cathedrals. At least, then, she 
has this advantage, that the pulpit saints and the organ 
pipes do not at once claim her attention to the exclu- 
sion of the great interior. We remember very kindly 
— now don't think I have forgotten my theme — a cer- 
tain head waiter who said to our leader when we had 
asked for a hasty meal and cabs, "Yes, Miss, I will 
have them all on time if you can get your ladies to- 
gether. You do your part, and I will do mine." There 
was no special brilliancy in this sententious remark, 
but somehow it goes with us even into York Minster, 
as though that great church called to us of little soul : 
"You do your part and I will do mine." 

After this first draught of grandeur and beauty it 
is well to turn systematically to what our knowledge 
of architecture can tell us about the different parts, 
and to call in counsel our guide-book or our guide, 
until we can see at a glance the older structure and 
the new, and follow to some extent the life and growth 
of this great work of art. In connection with this we 
will observe, according to the time we can give, the 
frescoes and carvings, noting whether they were a 
part of the original design or have been super-added, 
and whether in our judgment they carry out the effect 

107 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



the whole was intended to produce. In these investi- 
gations you would be surprised to find how a duty- 
task becomes a thing of pleasure ; and when you reach 
the point where you can act as guide yourself, and 
say to a friend, "Look at the round arches of that 
old transept ; see the transition here from huge Nor- 
man pillars to the Gothic clustered columns; note the 
simple tracery in that early tower, compared with the 
flamboyant branchings of this later one; and do come 
as soon as you can to the choir to get acquainted with 
my pet carvings ;" when, I say, you have reached this 
point, you are well on the way to being old friends 
with that cathedral ; and you know that there is only 
a faint family resemblance between it and its cousin 
fifty miles away. 

Next, secure the photographs that will make perma- 
nent the results of your study, and when you show 
them to your friends talk them over until they, too, 
begin to enter into your knowledge and admiration. 

Now, having surveyed with me this Gothic nave, 
525 feet long, and looked up into the square tower 
over the intersection, over 200 feet high, and having 
smiled a happy smile at that lovely row of lancet win- 
dows in the north transept known as the Five Sisters — 
fifty feet high, and slender and stately, every one ; hav- 
ing followed the conscientious guide through the in- 
teresting choir and down into the crypt, where he 
shows you massive pillars from the church of Paulinus' 
time still helping to bear the weight of this newer 
structure, and, in a shadowy nook well worth the 
screening of your eyes, an old, old spring which is 
connected in legend with the baptism of King Edwin 
— having also learned that the enclosing of the cen- 
tral part of the nave is a necessity for warming it suf- 
ficiently for service — that that carved screen does not 
break the continuous vista with malice prepense but 

108 



EIGHT WEEKS 

of necessity, and that even now an incredible number 
of tons of coal are consumed each year — I remember 
that it struck our northern New York ears as about 
enough for an average sized church — you are, last of 
all, taken to the Chapter House, the unique pride of 
the minster. This is a lofty octagonal room entered 
from the north transept, every side but one consisting 
of one huge tracerized window with superb stained 
glass, the vaulted roof by some magic of buttressing 
being upheld by this fragile wall, with no assistance 
of the central pillar usually assigned to this task. 

We long for a week of Sundays to study out these 
saints and angels in color, and the tiny carved heads 
that finish the marble wainscoting below the windows. 
We agree perfectly with an ancient Latin inscription 
pointed out to us by the verger : "Ut rosa flos florum, 
sicut est domus ista domorum," and feel that the 
charm is complete when this good man translates it 
for our unlearned ears : "As the rose is the flower of 
flowers, so is this 'ouse the 'ouse of 'ouses." 

How we rend our hearts as we hurry back to the 
station by recalling the fact that Roman walls with a 
sightly promenade upon them still encompass this 
city ; that Roman coins and weapons dug from this soil 
are to be seen in the museum; that here are associa- 
tions with the Emperor Constantius who died here, 
and with his great son Constantine, who was here first 
hailed his successor; that ancient timbered houses 
are to be seen here, as old-timey as those of Chester; 
also a gorgeous archbishops' palace with gardens to 
delight our hearts. 

Farewell, dear old Eboracum, from whom our own 
Empire State and metropolis take their name; fare- 
well, city of historic worth in the tales of the Wars 
of the Roses ; we are traveling on schedule time, but 
we shall not forget, as we steam out of the big station, 

109 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



to look back for a last impressive view of your glo- 
rious minster. 

And now I must to my tester bed to try the sleeping 
qualities of splendor in a crowd. 

M. 



no 



EIGHT WEEKS 



XVI— THE SHAKESPEARE REGION. 

Leamington Railway Station, 

Saturday, July 10. 

"Is it the up train that you want, mum?" asks the 
official; and how proud I am to be aware that up 
always means toward London, and to be able to an- 
swer boldly, "Yes, the express that stops at Oxford." 

While waiting for it I take time to congratulate 
you and us on this opportunity of drawing a long 
breath of mere air without any historic associations. 
Leamington is a comparatively recent town, laid out 
beside some mineral springs that may be old — most 
springs are — but having no connection, so far as I 
can learn, with ancient deeds or men of high degree. 
Breathe while you can, for every breeze has been thick 
with heroes and heroines for the past twenty-four 
hours, and so will be again as soon as we roll into the 
university town. 

Leamington was put down on our itinerary as a 
good centre from which to visit the three famous 
places which brought us here — Stratford, the furthest 
south, the city of Shakespeare ; Warwick in the mid- 
dle, glorious in its ancient line of counts and dukes, 
in its castle that has never been ruined, and its old 
church where rests the dust of titled lords and ladies ; 
and Kenilworth, furthest north, famous for its im- 
mense ruins, the greatest in England, of the castle of 
Simon de Montfort, John of Gaunt, Henry VIII, 
Queen Elizabeth, and her courtier, Leicester. No, 

ill 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



indeed ! Our active brains, fresh from two cathedrals, 
could not waste their vital force over night by lodging 
in a modern watering place ; so we came by innumer- 
able changes of train — and always a shilling to the 
porter who transferred our bags — on into the dark, 
every new station-master making a study of our book- 
lets of tickets, shaking his head dubiously, assuring us 
that they were all right, that booking by another road 
might have been more expeditious, and that our next 
change would occur "in about ten minutes, ma'am." 
On again, into deeper darkness, until we reached a 
station that was neither Warwick nor any other place 
on our tickets, but where a kindly market woman in 
our carriage assured us we must dismount or be car- 
ried beyond our destination. "Oh, yes, my lady, the 
train do go to Warwick, to be sure it do ; but then 
ye must take the tram, my lady, either from here or 
from Leamington. Yes, so it do rain, my lady, very 
bad; but ye'll find the tram just 'round the corner, 
mum, and ye'll soon be there all right." And so we 
were, after sufficient time and patience, sufficient in- 
quiries and changes of luggage; and we found little 
Warwick so filled from tennis tournaments and the 
like that we were fain to take up with such crowded 
splendor as I described to you at my last entry. And 
now the three famous and contrasting places are like 
a lovely dream; how shall we ever retain impressions 
made so rapidly, and necessarily so fleeting? By im- 
pressing them again upon you, patient recipients of 
these pages. So slip in a new sensitive plate and 
await results. 

Warwick itself, a tangle of narrow streets set with 
slate and thatch roofed houses, lies in the midst of 
the greenest of English fields cut by the prettiest of 
lanes and hedgerows ; and through the midst of all this 
sweeps a grand, curving turnpike, bordered with limes 

112 



EIGHT WEEKS 



and oaks, down which a modern autobus pursues its 
noisy and perilous way in behalf of hasty travelers like 
ourselves. So burr, burr, and honk, honk we went, 
at peril of ourselves and all the wayside, through many 
a little village swinging into range, scudding by with 
its bake shop, its butcher shop, its small parish church. 
Is this the outskirts of Stratford? or this? No, fifty 
minutes first of this kaleidoscope, and then a wider 
pavement, larger shops, and branching streets, and 
here we are on Stratford's holy ground. This autobus 
was to have been to us a kind of personally conducted 
affair, but only one piece of information had we re- 
ceived in the roar of the past fifty minutes, and now 
we were set down upon the pavement with small cere- 
mony, to explore until the return trip. "Just around 
the corner, ma'am, you'll find the Shakespeare 'ouse, 
and ye can't possibly miss it, ma'am." Nor could we 
when we came to it, so like the pictures that have 
become a part of every student's mental furnishing; 
but older, far older than any photograph or lithograph 
ever portrays ; such ancient timbers, they seemed as 
though they might have been part of Noah's Ark — so 
bending down here and so curving in there, and filled 
in with plastered brick as old, the whole combina- 
tion of gables giving a kind of grandfatherly nod 
toward the street, as who should say, "Yes, we are 
here and always have been. We shall always stay, but 
you will not. Take a good look at us, you passing 
generations." The antiquity of the Shakespeare house 
seemed the typical thing from which every neighbor- 
ing mansion took its cue; for the Harvard House, of 
great interest to us who swear by Boston, and the old 
Town Hall ; the Guild Hall, too, in which are the 
schoolrooms where little William learned his tasks — 
all these seem like younger or sturdier brothers of the 
famous birth house. 



113 



EIGHT LANDS IN 




The Shakespeare- Manse* 

Inside, the house was still more impressive; such 
low rooms with the beams overhead, such humble door- 
ways, such tiny closets, such steep and narrow stairs. 
If prenatal influence means anything, where did Shake- 
speare get his wide horizons? But sacred it seems, 
too, like the little Jewish tabernacle in the wilderness 
and the small marble temples of the Greeks; and one 
does not need to have seen the names of visitors of 
every nation written on the low ceiling in order to 
feel the spell of this home of the world's poet. The 
little garden in the rear, planted by loving hands with 
innumerable trees and shrubs and flowers that adorn 
the Shakespearean dramas, is a thing to touch one's 
heart. So would we all choose to be remembered, for 
the lovely things that had been dear to us. 

A third of a mile away, on the banks of the Avon, 
stands Trinity Church, with greensward and trees and 

114 



EIGHT WEEKS 



old tombstones around, and the waters whispering by. 
This, too, seems holy ground. What heart of all the 
reading world has not beat higher and lived purer for 
the heart that lies silent here under the stone floor 
behind the altar rail? Here is the familiar warning 
against disturbing the poet's bones, here the familiar 
colored bust on the wall, here the graves of wife and 
children at the great man's side. Walk softly ! 

In a chapel at the left are the tombs of the Clop- 
tons, the family that for centuries have been benefac- 
tors of the city and are especially associated with a 
very old bridge across the Avon. The marble effigies 
point to a time of long ago ; but a very recent inscrip- 
tion on one of the walls shows that the line has come 
down to the present day. 




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Ann& Ha?"kawayb fire-side- 



115 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



A little bickering with a cabman just outside the 
churchyard gate — this to remind us that we are trav- 
elers as well as worshipers — and we roll off through 
pretty fields and roads to Shottery, where Shakes- 
peare won his bride. Here the charming cottage of 
Anne Hathaway is again a place of wonder. Under 
its thatched roof we find more elegance than in the 
Shakespeare house, larger rooms, tiled fireplaces set 
with huge dogs and hung round with copper pans and 
skillets, mantles adorned with old crockery, high- 
backed chairs and high-post bedsteads beautifully 
carved — a general air of homely sumptuousness. The 
garden, too, filled with old-fashioned flowers and 
fruits, is a delight ; and why must our thundering 
autobus leave so soon? A few photographs snatched 
in haste from the old man at the gate, and back to the 
Warwick arms to eat our dinner in haste and begin 
our explorations of castles. 

Now somebody must have known, when planning 
our itinerary, that it was one thing to devise and 
another to execute ; that nothing short of Garagantua's 
legs and Garagantua's eyes could accomplish two cas- 
tles in one afternoon ; one of them near at hand, in 
prime order, a museum of art and bric-a-brac ; the 
other five miles off, a massive ruin, every crumbling 
wall of which would beckon us to view it nearer. But 
here again eight proved to be twice as capable as 
four, and difference in taste solved a problem that the 
itinerary man had given up in despair. Part of us 
went to Warwick Castle, paid our two shillings apiece 
to see aristocracy in its halls ; waited a long time out- 
side, walked and stared and listened in a hustling 
crowd within, and were tired, tired at the end ; but we 
had seen the armour of heroes from Guy of Warwick 
and Warwick the King-maker to Oliver Cromwell, the 
portraits of royalty by Rubens and Van Dyck, tapes- 

116 



EIGHT WEEKS 



tried halls and garden balconies, Venetian mirrors, 
inlaid tables, the Warwick vase of renown, and much 
more beyond the pen of woman to chronicle ; so we 
said that we were well repaid, and that a living castle 
outranked a dead one any day. 

The rest of us climbed into a little one-horse carry- 
all and jaunted away through more of Fairyland green- 
ery to Kenilworth, the grandest pink sandstone ruin 
that ever rose from English turf. There we saw ban- 
queting halls that had rung with the jests of the Lan- 
castrians, ruined boudoirs of the court beauties of the 
Tudors, grounds that had been transformed into tur- 
neys and lakes to entertain Queen Elizabeth ; ovens 
where oxen had been roasted whole for mammoth 
feasts, kitchen shelves where Old Time has been feast- 
ing these centuries gone, and all around ivy tods; 
prickly hollies in green, white and red ; rose trees and 
rose vines ; a flock of soft-wooled sheep, and a velvet 
sod such as only a combination of English climate and 
English gardeners can produce. Said a friend of ours 
to a gardener on a gentleman's estate : "How do you 
manage to have such a perfect turf, and not a weed 
to be seen?" "Oh, ma'am, we weeds and we digs, and 
we digs and we weeds five hundred years." 

Of course, there was also a Caesar's Tower ; for in 
every feudal castle the biggest and oldest thing in the 
shape of a keep or donjon is reckoned back by tradi- 
tion to the times of the Romans, and no matter how 
definitely its date may be set for some century of the 
Middle Ages, it quietly holds by its old name of Cae- 
sar's Tower. 

Those of us who visited Kenilworth spent all of our 
return drive in lamenting for those who had chosen 
Warwick. What can your well-preserved, smartly 
dressed castle furnish to compare with the sunset 
lights and ivy pall on this castle in ruins? 

117 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



When we turned our backs at last on Warwick, and 
on this day of triple sightseeing, our driver took us to 
a pretty spot beside the mill and pointed us across the 
pond to the grounds that once belonged to Guy of 
Warwick. This Guy, whose armor we had seen in 
Warwick Castle, distinguished himself in legend by 
killing a perilous "dun cow" of this neighborhood, and 
later is reputed to have gone on a pilgrimage to Pales- 
tine, and on his return to have conceived of a new 
way to holiness — none other than to live the rest of 
his days as a hermit in a cell on his own estate, and 
never make himself known to his longing wife. Of 
course, just as he felt death approaching he discov- 
ered himself to her, and they both died happy and 
were buried side by side in the hermit cell ; all of 
which we could look away to under the spreading 
trees, but might not visit because the present owners 
were just then at home. But we admired the old mill, 
and the verses of the present miller poet ; and now we 
are resting limply and gratefully in the unhistoric air 
of Leamington. 

Adieu, and may you dream no dreams at all. 

M. 



118 



EIGHT WEEKS 



XVII— A MOTHER OF MEN. 




QxfOHD Un\ v£RSj T r 

At the King's Arms in Oxford. 

Sunday, July n. 

I remember saying one day to Mrs. D., after her 
first year in the Chicago parish : "Don't you find it a 
tremendous task to learn all those new names and 
faces?" "Oh, no," said she, with the same shining 
smile that she turns toward the birds and the hills, "I 
like to meet people." I hope you are all of the same 
mind when you come to Oxford for a Sunday. "But 
it is not term time," you say ; "the town is empty, and 
if it were not, we have no introductions." True, the 
town is empty of the students and professors of to- 
day ; dons and fellows, deans and proctors and mas- 
ters and rectors ; few caps and gowns are seen in the 
streets. But oh, the thousands who come up here from 
pulpits and bishoprics, from courts and councils, from 
inside the covers of books, from ships long ago gone 
down at sea, from foreign courts and congregations 
of philanthropy — a procession that is ever walking 

119 



EIGHT L'A'NDS IN 



these streets, looking in at these gardens, taking boat 
on this little river Isis ! I confess that I stood in awe 
of them from the first, and at the end of twenty- four 
hours' intercourse I feel not a whit more at ease. I 
cannot say that I am familiar even with their college 
homes, although the names of Merton and Magdalen, 
Radcliffe and Pembroke, Christ Church and All Souls 
are all the time tramping through my brain, I think 
we all feel that nothing short of settling down here 
to live could give us even a slight acquaintance with 
this place. With art and history we have been grap- 
pling ever since we landed ; but here we have to grap- 
ple with men — who they were, where they lived, what 
they accomplished in the scholarly air of Oxford, and 
what in the big world afterwards. At the same time 
we try to make acquaintance with these splendid piles 
of architecture, and we find our cathedral education 
failing us a little on college halls; for some of their 
builders were recklessly disregardful of our simple 
knowledge when they launched forth into the intri- 
cacies of these transitional styles. But thus much we 
can tell you, that everywhere you turn on these closely 
built streets, a college building is at the right and a 
college building at the left; that each one is a stately 
block with an entrance like a church door, and a great 
tower somewhere ; that through the portal door, when 
open, you look into lovely quadrangles, lawns with 
flowers and vines, and often through a second portal 
in the rear building to still another garden beyond; 
that into these gardens you may usually enter and 
wander there at your will beside the greenest lawns, 
the gayest borders, old walls overgrown with the 
most luxuriant ivy, and under trees whose leaves are 
heavy and shining like wax; perhaps you may be so 
fortunate as to stop under a huge cedar of Lebanon, 
planted by some returning crusader, or a purple 

1 20 



EIGHT WEEKS 



beech sweeping its branches down to the ground. How 
things do grow in England ! Grass seems to have no 
objection to the shade, and flowers blossom as though 
it were perpetual springtime. 

We came here for a Sunday to rest and be thankful, 
so I am not responsible for showing you much, or 
asking you to remember it. I will merely note down 
what you may already know, and what you are at per- 
fect liberty to skip if you don't know — that these col- 
leges, now some two dozen in number, were originally 
founded as homes where students might live, being 
entirely independent of the lecturers or of the courses 
of study that drew them here. That even now their 
constitution is more elastic than that of the American 
college, and that the controlling power of the Uni- 
versity as a whole is a council made up of governing 
heads and graduates ; that each college has its own title 
for its head — Master, Rector, Principal, President, 
Provost, as it may be; that the "Proctors" and "Bull- 
dogs" who look after the well behavior of the lads 
are chosen from all the colleges in turn ; that Tutors 
and Fellows are known as Dons, the latter being grad- 
uates who receive an honorary salary, and may or 
may not give tutorial work in return ; that govern- 
ing power above mentioned acts through a Chancellor 
of noble rank and a vice-chancellor of noble industry 
in granting degrees ; that the students room either in 
the colleges or in town, but dine together in great 
halls; and that they wear their gowns all the college 
year round, not only as an honor, but as a kind of 
voucher for their good intentions, carrying them about 
on their arms when a warm wave renders them 
uncomfortable. 

As for the names of the twenty-six colleges, the 
dates, the founders, the distinguishing features, and 
the great men who have graduated from each — I 

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leave the task of mastering these to your mighty 
brains, and I assure you the records you will consult 
will introduce you to a line of princes from all climes 
of this world and from all centuries since the days of 
Alfred the Great. You may ask yourselves, too, how 
far these princely ranks are beholden to the watch- 
word which you see everywhere blazoned in the Uni- 
versity Escutcheon — "Dominus Illuminatio Mea" — 
The Lord my Light. 

We have so divided our forces to-day that among 
us we have attended many services, from the sim- 
plicity of a Congregational church to full ritual in the 
Cathedral — otherwise Christ Church Chapel. In the 
Congregational church the Calvinists of our party 
were favored with a most admirable sketch of the 
great Reformer whose four hundredth birthday comes 
about these days ; and a charming touch brought the 
past and the present together in a brief sermon to the 
children from Calvin's watchword, "If God be for us, 
who can be against us?" This was followed by "the 
children's hymn," in which every alternate verse was 
carried by childish voice alone. At vespers in New 
College the centuries were again made to go 
hand in hand. We had been told by the verger that 
we must be early if we wanted seats, New College 
music being so famous as to insure a crowd even in 
vacation ; and sure enough, through a drizzling rain 
umbrellas appeared from main street, side streets, and 
garden gate till the large porch was crowded, and at 
the turning of the entrance key all seats were filled. 
Then began that rhythm of sight and sound that was 
a fit accompaniment of a vesper service; for all the 
while that the inspired organist rolled forth the har- 
mony of voluntary, chants, responses, hymns of the 
church, there looked down on us from the east wall 
of the chapel rows and rows of marble saints, filling 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



the space from wainscoting to gable ; and we felt our- 
selves worshiping with hosts whose names we did 
not know, but into whose labors we hurrying travelers 
were privileged to enter. Long after the service had 
closed and most of the audience had passed out, the 
organist played on and on — softer, louder, the praises 
that are and that were, and prophecies of those that 
are to be. Light after light went out, till only one 
was left for him in his loft and one for us below ; and 
to his last strains we found ourselves repeating, "Dom- 
inus Illuminatio Mea," and singing in our hearts as 
we started homeward, "Praise Him in the great con- 
gregation ; praise Him among the people." 

Monday Noon. — I must not leave this university 
town without satisfying your curiosity in regard to 
the one point you all have in mind — the far-famed 
dining halls and kitchens. Of course, we had to skip 
most of them ; you have learned to expect that of us 
now ; but we went to see Magdalen (which we had to 
call Maudlin, though it sorely went against the good 
spellers) ; had considerable difficulty in distinguishing 
the vestibule, the chapel, and the dining hall, all were 
so venerable and lofty, but were convinced that we 
had found the right place by the heavy tables and 
benches on which brocaded and bewigged portraits 
looked down, and by seeing the verger or head waiter 
or curator of college plate opening up certain myste- 
rious panels in the wall to put away the college knives 
and forks. There was no opportunity to see British 
students dine ; but the kitchen was a glorious sight. 
About as ancient as Kenilworth Castle, it looked, its 
ovens and pastry tables and roasting spits the same ; 
its array of copper pots and pans, and cellar-like 
recesses, suggestive of a conservatism that proposes 
to cook as its ancestors cooked before it. My Lady 
Bright Eyes says, "No, there was a row of gas jets 

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for the steaks, in place of the old-time coals, and 
some more gas burners in the dark corners," but as 
for an elevator or a rolling butler's tray to carry the 
food to the tables — dear me, what absurdity! Why 
shouldn't waiters carry the soup up those fifteen stone 
steps, as they did in the days of Wolsey? And if 
some of the waiters happen to be charity students, 
earning their way, so much the better for the devel- 
opment of their muscles and their morals. I've no 
doubt, however, that the college appetites are quite 
up to date; and so are ours, ready for lunch before we 
leave this hospitable inn and take the train up to 
London. 

Apropos to English inns, let me say that we find 
them living up to their reputation and most homelike. 
Although they have an air of conservatism like the 
college kitchens, your every want is quickly supplied, 
from a hot bath to a blazing fire on the hearth or an 
appetizing cup of afternoon tea; and so far the Euro- 
pean breakfast, that scant source of morning 
strength for which we have been fortifying ourselves, 
has not shown its face. Good Scotch porridge can 
still be had for the asking; marmalade and jam accom- 
pany the rolls and coffee, and eggs or fish are gener- 
ally added. Always the tables are beautiful with 
flowers most tastefully arranged. And if you will 
forgive me this commonplace conclusion for our col- 
lege town, I will make my last picture that of our 
happy eight at lunch at their round table in the 
King's Arms and the elegant waiter, as he passes 
from plate to plate, serving a spoonful of this, a spoon- 
ful of that, as though long practice with a student 
clientele had taught him the unwisdom of allowing 
guests to help themselves. We never were so tenderly 
treated before. 

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"EIGHT' WEEKS 



Farewell. While we are taking the afternoon train 
to London you are just creeping out of your beds. A 
good appetite for all your breakfasts. 

M. 



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EIGHT L'ANDS ~ I N> 



XVIII— THE WORLD'S METROPOLIS. 




London 

Dearly beloved: 

Do you realize that we are in the biggest thing 
on earth — the metropolis of this globe? Do you 
know that this city compares very favorably with 
Nineveh of old for size, and that if its street 
lights were drawn out in one straight line only 
a rod apart they could have lighted our passage 
clear across the Atlantic Ocean? And yet, as on the 
ocean itself, it is difficult to realize this immensity, 
and we feel no more "at sea" than we should if Ends- 
leigh Gardens were the whole affair, instead of being 
a dot in the big city map. We know that we, the city, 
are all a'roar for fifteen miles east and west, and half 
as far north and south ; at least, we are built up in 
brick and stone, and paved, and furnished with shops 
and hotels and cabs and policemen, and daily papers, 
and street venders, and — woe's the day ! — with thun- 
dering autobuses that go careering through the streets 
and are a convenience to those who ride, especially to 
those on the upper story in nice little rows of seats 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



with rubber lap robes for rain, but are a deafening 
terror to those who walk ! 

Yes, we are here, not so very far from that good 
starting point, Russell Square; the British Museum, 
National Gallery, Trafalgar Square, Parliament House, 
Westminster Abbey, sweep off with the great palaces 
and parks to our south and west; the Strand, Fleet 
Street, the Bank, St. Paul's, and all the busiest busi- 
ness streets to our south and east; the great River 
Thames and its bridges make the southern boundary 
of all these, and outside, to the north, east, south and 
west are streets and streets and streets which — give 
thanks — are not remarkable enough to claim a place 
in our memory. 

With a sense of coziness in our own pleasant board- 
ing house, no great rumbling on our homelike street, 
and pretty, green parks in sight at both ends of our 
block, we still have an overwhelmed feeling of big 
things to be done in a few days' time, and of a su- 
preme trial of our first great tenet; for skip nine- 
tenths we must, and how to select a one-tenth that 
shall be typical of the whole and not cause us to drop 
our heads in shame when our home friends ask us, 
"Did you visit this park and that picture gallery? 
You saw such and such palaces, of course? And 
which did you like better, St. Paul's or West- 
minster? And how many sittings of Parliament did 
you attend? And did you read Wordsworth's sonnet 
on Westminster Bridge? And where did you find the 
best shopping?" Fortunately, we are eight, and each 
of us has some pet sight to see, so we shall make sure 
of eight objects of which we can give a reasonable 
account. Our Star. Lady knows that she must visit 
Kew Gardens ; My Lady Persistent will see the Tower 
with her last drop of blood ; My Lady Bright Eyes 
has no use for the British Museum, having seen all 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 

she cares to of Rameses and his tribe in New York ; 
My Lady in Blue must call on that arch financier, 
Cook ; My Lady Practical has promised a friend to 
sail upon the River Thames ; the other three are blest 
with English friends whom they must visit, even if 
that implies omitting Windsor Castle. Therefore, we 
will entrust ourselves first to one of Thomas Cook's 
half-day tours of the city — no whole-day tours for us, 
if you please; and if anything is then left of London 
or of us, we will use our best judgment about what 
remains. I will tell you the results later. 
* * * 

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday 
Evenings. 

This may seem to you, dear logical friends, a little 
mixed ; but so are we, and so are our diaries and our 
letters home. Nevertheless, at the end of every one 
of these days we have patted ourselves with so much 
approbation that we feel all ready to tell you how to 
do the big city, too. The plan of dividing and the 
plan of keeping together were both good. Under the 
conduct of one of Mr. Cook's well-informed and gen- 
tlemanly conductors, a whole omnibus load of us vis- 
ited in one morning the center of the old city, which 
extended from Temple Bar on the west to the Tower 
on the east; had a good look at the Temple precincts, 
with its stories about knights, and the red and white 
roses of Lancaster and York, the lawyers' quarters of 
modern days, and above all of Goldsmith and Lamb ; 
also at the beautiful Temple Church, with quaint ef- 
figies of crusaders lying on their graves beside the 
worshipers' seats within, 
"Their bones are dust, 

Their good swords rust; 

Their souls are with the saints, we trust." 
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EIGHT WEEKS 



We walked slowly through the National Gallery, 
which is the one great picture gallery of London, 
and felt our souls grow happy as our bodies grew 
tired over all those beauties from Italy, France and 
Spain, from the Netherlands and Germany, and espe- 
cially from England itself, all of us who had seen 
them before declaring them much finer than we re- 
membered them. We became reasonably familiar 
with beautiful Trafalgar Square, Nelson uplifted on 
his monument, ancl Landseer's crouching lions at its 
base — with the exterior of the splendid file of Par- 
liament buildings, like choice but mammoth bronzes 
they look beside the river — and of Westminster Abbey, 
so like its photographs that we were sure we had 
known it always. We drove along the great Victoria 
embankment, which lies as solid as native rock, hold- 
ing the river to its right curve; we set actual eyes 
upon places so familiar by name — Piccadilly, Pall Mall, 
St. James' Square, and still had left a feeble remnant 
of strength to wander through the British Museum. 
There came up a rousing little thunderstorm, to give 
us enforced leisure there; and while we gazed at the 
great quiet sphinxes and the Assyrian genii on their 
upright slabs, I tried to account to myself for their 
charm. Setting aside all the effects of education, it 
still remains a fact that some people are born ancient 
and some are born modern. They may have great 
tolerance for one another, but they will never look at 
the world from the same standpoint. One loves her 
for the records of ages that she stores up in her treas- 
ure chambers ; another, for the fresh and flowery gar- 
ment that she wraps about her. But every one of us 
has enough filial reverence to be impressed with those 
monuments that were choice to our ancestors, those 
fragments of their old homes that seem to set us down 
beside of them, and those rude beginnings of art to 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



•which modern progress owes so much. Perhaps if 
any of you are born modern and still have a lurking 
shame of your lack in the opposite direction, it will 
help you if you give yourself a few stunts in history, 
till Egypt and Assyria become alive to you once more, 
and then deliberately send out your imagination to the 
past ages, till you begin to feel yourself a citizen of 
the world — not merely of this continent and this cen- 
tury. You would wish, on the whole, would you not, 
to feel that you did not live entirely on the surface of 
time and place? In general, you would rather be a 
tree than a butterfly? Well, such things as the British 
Museum do not come into your life every day ; make 
the most of them when they do. And more's the pity 
that in all our cities at home we are not beginning in 
a small way our British Museums. We must work 
for that when we go home — for the thing itself and 
for that deep, wide culture that will demand it. 

And now the thunderstorm is over and we have not 
half-way taken account of these wonderful battle- 
pieces from Sennacherib's palace, this Black Obelisk 
with the deeds of Shalmaneser II, the Moabite Stone 
and the Rosetta Stone — are we sure that we know the 
difference between them? — this head of Memnon who 
used to sing to the rising sun ; this Tomb of Hali- 
carnassus, once counted among the seven wonders of 
the world ; these rare Elgin Marbles from Athens, the 
admiration of to-day as well as of Greece in the years 
of her best art. We have not even glanced at Etruscan 
remains, Roman antiquities, and the scanty evidences 
of art from our own Anglo-Saxon progenitors; nor, 
alas ! have we set foot inside one of the greatest 
libraries of the world, where almost two million books 
stand ready to enlighten the darkness of the humble. 

It is interesting to trace the growth of such a 
library; first, some private collections of manuscripts 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



by one Mr. Cotton and others in the sixteenth cen- 
tury; then the library of books of one Sir Hans 
Sloane; next, a public lottery to raise funds and pur- 
chase these for the kingdom; after these the addition 
of the great collection of King George III, given by 
his son ; and, in most recent times, the steady growth 
at the rate of 10,000 odd books a year as gifts from 
foreign lands and as sample volumes of every publi- 
cation copyrighted in the kingdom. 

The ragged fragments that remained of us after 
this morning's work voted the Cook's tour a success, 
except for the horse power that conveyed us. It be- 
gins to be a melancholy fact that horses are of value 
only to the gentleman of leisure; for speed and 
strength our great cities demand what automobiles can 
give; and, alas for our anti-noise associations under 
these conditions ! 

In the days that followed this first drive some of us 
have lost our hearts to Kew Gardens, its terraces and 
groves, its water-lilies and palms ; others to the wind- 
ings of the Thames, with pretty summer cottages on 
the banks and college crews practicing in long shells 
on the water ; some of us have heard Big Ben roll out 
the hour from the clock tower of Parliament House, 
and Big Paul do the same from the heights of St. 
Paul's; we all have compared the Gothic splendor of 
Westminster Abbey, a little overcrowded with tombs 
and statues, with the Renaissance dome and piers of 
St. Paul's ; some have driven in real carriages in Hyde 
Park, where cabs and omnibuses may not go; others 
have explored the strongholds and dungeons of Lon- 
don Tower, smiled at the yeoman dress of the "beef- 
eater" guards, and gloated over the diamonds and 
emeralds of crown jewels ; some of us have even gone 
shopping, and some have been entertained in real 
English homes; but not one of us has looked on the 

r 3i 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



graves of Milton and Bunyan, or journeyed to Wind- 
sor Castle, or visited the Zoo. So we are inclined to 
be modest about our achievements, and to send word 
to you that much land remains to be possessed. We 
are tired enough to be ready for another Sabbath, and 
for that we have great expectations, as it is to be in 
the cradle of our modern Christianity, none other than 
old Canterbury. 

Yes, dear inquirers, we did read Wordsworth's son- 
net, written on Westminster Bridge, and it is so per- 
fect a picture in little that neither you nor I would be 
happy if I failed to write it down. 

Earth has not anything to show more fair! 

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty. 
This city now doth like a garment wear 
The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 

Ships, towers, domes, theaters and temples lie 

Open unto the fields and to the sky, 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more gloriously steep 

In his first splendor valley, rock or bill, 
Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep. 

The river glideth at his own sweet will; 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep 
And all that mighty heart is lying still. 



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XIX— PILGRIMS TO CANTERBURY. 

On Pilgrimage to Canterbury. 

Saturday, July 17. 

All you dear people who have patiently traveled 
with us from our landing in Liverpool crisscross of 
the beautiful island to this southeast corner, I wonder 
whether you are as sorry as we to begin to say fare- 
well. We find ourselves looking back over two weeks 
as though it were a good two months; summing up 
our great gains, counting our seven cathedrals, dif- 
ferentiating the smaller towns, painting in our mem- 
ories the beauties of the countryside, and saying to 
ourselves : "Oh ! I shall never forget ; oh ! I must not 
forget !" And all of these later days, when we have 
a moment to anticipate, we have been asking our- 
selves : "Is it right to rob London of a day for the 
sake of Canterbury? And shall we find the climax 
all that we desire?" 

Well, I will just keep you waiting on that interro- 
gation point while I lay out in order with you the 
historic points that we have been reviewing as we 
came along the railroad out of London by Cannon 
Street Station and down through County Kent. 

We have been sending our imaginations on a stren- 
uous journey, first to Celtic days when Britain seemed 
to stand alone, unconquered and unconquering, with 
a rude civilization all her own; next, to the Roman 
incursions under Julius Caesar, and the later Roman 
rule, which meant camps and highways, towers and 

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walls of defense, theaters and baths, strong cities, 
heavy taxes — the civilization and the letters of the 
world capital; then to the coming of our own ances- 
tors after Roman evacuation — guests by invitation at 
first, but conquerors in the end; those bold Anglo- 
Saxons to whom we trace our best qualities of cour- 
age and persistence, of faithfulness to friend and to 
family; but who, in their rollicking enjoyment of 
tearing down good walls and making havoc of civili- 
zation did undeniably exercise a certain Fourth of 
July license that left much to be desired. — Poor, 
dear grandpapas, forgive us if we are severe! — 
and after this to the peaceful arrival of beloved St. 
Augustine and his monks, with the baptizing and 
church building that followed; and, last of all, to the 
landing of the Norman Conquerors, also ancestors of 
ours, in 1066. 

And why must our imaginations end their English 
tasks with such Herculean labor ? Because right here, 
in this southern county of Kent, was the landing place 
for friends and foes, the entrance gate from time 
immemorial ; and historic dilettantes like ourselves 
may help out their English dates by counting up the 
five great landings, four of which I have just men- 
tioned. 

Now, the first thing a Roman general did when he 
wished to annex a foreign country was to build a 
good road connecting it with Rome. Undoubtedly the 
great pathmaker, Julius Caesar, found a pretty good 
inland trail already extending from his landing place 
at Deal; and this his successors converted into the 
famous Watling Street, carried diagonally across the 
island from Dover in the southeast to Holyhead at 
the northwest corner of Wales. Through Canterbury 
it passed, and Rochester and London, and was the 
highway of the nation. This region, then, that we are 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



now traversing in our twentieth century express has 
echoed through the centuries to the tramp of armies, 
the rolling of chariots, the songs of pilgrims, the 
march of trade ; and all this must be sketched in as 
background to those historic pictures for which Can- 
terbury furnishes the stage. Of these, three stand 
supreme. 

First, St. Augustine, date 597 A. D. To the long- 
haired, blue-eyed Anglo-Saxons, admired by Pope 
Gregory in the slave-markets of Rome as "angels 
rather than Angles," this swarthy missionary of the 
South has been sent by the Holy Father, and has been 
welcomed by Christian Bertha, Frankish wife of the 
pagan King of Kent. For Christianity in Frankish 
Gaul preceded Christianity in Britain by about a hun- 
dred years. Augustine and his forty black-haired 
monks have landed in Thanet, have advanced to their 
first interview with royalty, clad in white, bearing a 
silver cross and a banner with the picture of our 
Lord, and chanting as they come, "Turn away from 
this city, O Lord, Thine anger and Thy wrath." Eth- 
elbert has bowed before a more powerful scepter than 
his of Kent, has been baptized in the little Church of 
St. Martin; has established these missionaries in his 
own palace, and given them lands for a church and a 
monastery, which are to become the glory of Canter- 
bury. 

Second, Thomas a Becket, date 1170 A. D., haughty 
prelate, Archbishop of all England, once a gay cour- 
tier, now a zealous defender of church against state, 
the state in this case being Henry II, King of Eng- 
land — is at his devotions in the glorious cathedral 
that has grown up on St. Augustine's foundations, 
when he is set upon by four knights, sent from his 
king, and foully murdered. Months of mourning and 
of papal interdict follow ; the cathedral shrines are 

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draped in mourning; ministrations cease, the people 
hunger in vain for spiritual bread. After four years 
a shamefaced old king, brought low by civil broils and 
family feuds, comes to do penance at the grave of 
the murdered saint. In his train follow, year by year 
and century by century, repentant pilgrims from all 
England and from neighboring lands, until Canter- 
bury becomes known as the city of a holy shrine, and 
gold and silver are but the least of the treasures left 
by grateful recipients of favors here obtained. 

Third, the Canterbury Pilgrims ; and here the main 
features have already been provided by the visiting 
throngs of two centuries, when, toward the end of 
the thirteen hundreds, that jovial genius Geoffrey 
Chaucer takes his pen in hand and sketches for Eng- 
lish readers so realistic and captivating a picture of 
Friar and Prioress, knight and yeoman, merchant 
and shopwoman, cantering along Wattling Street in 
the lead of Mine Host of the Tabard Inn, telling 
beguiling tales in rhyme, and turning in, wide-eyed, at 
Mercery Lane to front the Cathedral gate — that this 
pen picture has ever since stood side by side with the 
great historic events of Canterbury. 

But quick to your railway windows ! The great 
tower of the Cathedral is in sight, and here is the 
pyramidal mound of Dane John, near the station. 
Close by is that high and mighty gas factory that was 
once the keep of a Norman castle, and goes by the 
name of Csesar's Tower. Guide books may be chary 
of dating English towers back to the great Julius and 
his successors, but the living guides who have eyes 
and tongues can always find Roman bricks in the 
foundations, as sop for the credulous like ourselves. 

In some respects Canterbury recalls Chester. Its old 
wall still remains in part, and makes a pretty prome- 
nade; but its streets are always taking a little bend. 

1-7,6 



EIGHT WEEKS 

not at all as though they had been the avenues of a 
camp, and houses of brick and cement often replace 
the timbered structures of the north. The River Staur, 
which passes in two channels through the western 
part, is not put to so much account as the River Dee, 
but, as in Chester, all the stray corners of the town 
are filled up with flowers, and the pretty park at one 
end, where rises the huge, unexplained mound, is a 
bit of beautiful greenery. 

And all this time I am loitering through Canterbury 
streets as though I were not a pilgrim to the greatest 
of England's shrines. Oh, detain me no longer with 
virtuous information, but turn into Mercery Lane, a 
tiny street lined with shops, and see right before you 
at its end that beautiful Christ Church Gate that admits 
you to the Cathedral precincts. If you can imagine 
marble or sandstone done into brocade and velvet, that 
is the way I think of Christ Church Gate. It is rich 
and soft, as though you could lay your hand on it 
with pleasure; full of pretty patterns of arches com- 
plete and arches begun, just as a brocaded velvet 
might be ; and so old ! Not exactly ragged or moth- 
eaten, but suggestive of passing centuries. It makes 
you catch your breath as you first see it filling the 
whole end of the street against the blue sky. Hurry 
by the shop windows, full of hosiery and ribbons and 
hats — even past the great array of photographs, and 
the irregular three-corners where stands Christopher 
Marlowe on his pedestal in the one-time Butter Mar- 
ket ; pass in at the gate, and now you know that you 
are not disappointed. A few more hours in London 
in place of this ? Rather, a few more days for Can- 
terbury. A green lawn is all around the cathedral, 
bounded by a part of the city wall on one side; there 
is plenty of ivy, some spreading trees, and this great 
architectural pile that took four hundred years to 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 




Ckrlst Ghu/r&kGate: 

hroiTU M^rcgrn Lane. 

attain to its present perfection. It is difficult to decide 
whether it is its beautiful proportions or its evident 
growth that give it the greater charm, Almost of the 

138 



EIGHT WEEKS 



dimensions of York, though narrower and with a 
loftier central tower, it is very unlike its rival. Where 
York impresses you by its symmetrical unity, Canter- 
bury is equally impressive by its variety, which is evi- 
dently not from the hand of the original architect, 
but from the many hands that have taken a share in 
its building. Two pairs of transepts cross the nave, 
and beyond the eastern of these project ancient chap- 
els, giving the impression of transepts number three. 
Flanked by these, the longest choir in England reaches 
out to a length of 180 feet, being extended to the east 
by Trinity Chapel, which, in its turn, is carried still 
further by a unique round apse known as the Corona. 




Canterbury from the. north- 

All this you can guess at from the outside, while you 
look up at the most perfect central tower you have 
ever seen, Gothic, square and lofty ; and at its two 
lower companions at the west, these all terminating in 
corner pinnacles that give one the feeling of looking 
at crowned heads. All the exterior, pointed windows, 
buttresses and flying buttresses show you the Gothic 

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you have learned to know so well — all except the east- 
ern chapels of St. Andrew and St. Anselm, whose 
round arched windows and corniced frieze tell you at 
once that these belong to the Norman beginnings of 
the church. From the south side of the southwest 
tower a superb Gothic porch offers niches and open- 
work canopies for a score of marble saints, and under 
the watchful eye of all these worthies you lay aside 
your architectural criticisms and enter the perpetual 
twilight within. How lofty, how full of mystery it 
is ! How high the clustered columns soar above you ; 
how far the lofty arches of the nave stretch away to 
the east ! At the first transept, where the choir be- 
gins, the pavement rises by a bold flight of steps; 
again by more steps at the high altar; once more at 
the opening to Trinity Chapel ; and, last of all, as you 
enter the pillared circle known as Becket's Crown. 
All this you cannot see at once, because a screen cuts 
off part of your view before you enter the choir ; but 
above this screen you can discern the vaulting of the 
nave, dim and far away, traveling on toward the east; 
and at your feet you are always having new surprises 
in one flight of stone steps after another, which the 
impatient verger who shows you around will not give 
you time enough to comprehend. These transepts 
and chapels, these tombs and chantries, eloquent of 
archbishops and princes and kings — are you to carry 
these all away with you after this rapid survey? Or 
must you be contented with an arabesque, a song, a 
kaleidoscopic shadow? Here in Trinity Chapel are 
two noteworthy tombs : the first that of the Black 
Prince who lies in effigy under a simple canopy, his 
breastplate and gauntlets hung above him as he took 
them off after his last battle ; and every one wants a 
half hour at least to dream about the gallant young 
hero, his capture of the King of France ; his wedding 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



of his cousin, the Fair Maid of Kent ; his chantry, 
built as expiation for this breach of church law, his 
characteristic watchword, "God being my help, I 
must fight on as best I can." Opposite is that of 
Henry IV, the first Lancastrian, whose conscience 
was a little tender on the manner of his acquiring the 
crown, so that he longed to make all right by a pil- 
grimage to Jerusalem, but, instead, ended his days in 
the Jerusalem Chamber of Westminster Abbey. He 
begged to be buried beside Canterbury's saint, and 
here he lies, close to the jeweled shrine that was, and 
to the pavement worn by pilgrims' feet. But as to 
lying next to the saint, King Henry VIII spoiled that. 
Deciding that a zealous churchman must have been a 
traitor, he legally summoned Archbishop Becket to 
appear for trial, and when the latter did not come 
forth from his grave of four hundred years, had his 
bones dug up and burned, and put the accumulated 
treasures of some millions in value into his own char- 
ity-like pocket. 

Yonder, in the Corona, stands the venerable chair 
of St. Augustine ; under the pavement is buried a 
zealot who rivals Becket — Cardinal Pole, the last Eng- 
lish archbishop of the Roman Catholic faith. And now 
hurry back through the north aisle out into the clois- 
ters, where Becket came from his palace to his death ; 
return from there to the north transept, now called 
the Martyrdom, where the murderers found him upon 
his knees praying God for the mercy refused him of 
men. The shadows are deepening. Grope your way 
through the dim nave, where rays of gold and crimson 
still stream in from the west window, and out at the 
south porch, to the companionship of the marble 
saints. "I am tired to death," groans the gowned dig- 
nitary who shuts the door behind you. Poor canon, 
or verger, or whatever he may be ; I suppose he has 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



his trials with visitors arriving on the late train from 
London, just as we have our trials with him. 

There is still evening light enough to see St. Mar- 
tin's in the Fields, and to-morrow, on that blessed 
Sunday that always promises time for pleasant but 
neglected things, I will tell you all about it. 

M. 



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EIGHT WEEKS 



XX— THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS. 

Sunday Evening. 

Yes, we secured two cabs, although it required much 
searching, the help of a policeman, and the final ef- 
ficient efforts of My Lady Bright Eyes ; and we drove 
out past the Augustine College, with its turreted por- 
tals — now again a training school for missionaries, as 
it was in its first days — to the ivy-grown Saxon 
Church of St. Martin's. It requires little argument 
to convince one that this building dates back to the 
days of Queen Bertha or, as the Venerable Bede as- 
serted, in that ecclesiastical history which was the only 
authority in Saxon times, to the days of Roman occu- 
pation. The simple, bare little church is crowded 
with chronicles of the past — a Roman window recently 
uncovered here, some Roman brick work in another 
place; in this corner the old font built up of many 
stones where Ethelbert and his warriors were bap- 
tized ; there the so-called Tomb of Queen Bertha, and 
the young verger in charge tells us all about it with 
a timid earnestness, as though he were just learning 
his lesson, but after a few years' practice would seem 
almost an eye-witness of the beloved past. A few 
moments among the old tombstones without where ivy 
and roses vie with each other in showing honor — then 
back into the little city where the microscopic streets 
are gay with Saturday evening promenaders all across 
the pavement — chatty girls in their best frocks, sol- 
diers in puffy cavalrymen's trousers clanking their 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



sabers, tourists on bicycles, an auto-car carefully forc- 
ing a passage, and just around the corner, whenever 
you care to turn that way, the marble vision at the end 
of Mercery Lane. The gatekeeper was closing the 
precinct gate as we took our last look by moonlight 






mm 





and twilight combined ; but whether to keep us out or 
the members of the Cathedral School in, we could not 
guess. 

This morning early we slipped out before our break- 
fast to find the communion service, and see whether 
Christ Church still drew us as it did the pilgrims of 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



old. The quiet of the Sabbath morning seemed only 
to add power to the holy influences of the evening be- 
fore. The grass and ivy were bright with dew, the 
sun streamed golden into Becket's Crown. All the 
young lads of Christ Church School were gathered in 
their surplices at one side ; and as one throng of wor- 
shipers after another went up the chancel steps to 
take the bread and wine, it seemed as though the cen- 
turies were repeating themselves. These strong men 
and quiet ladies — are they not the Henrys and the 
Edwards, the Beckets and Langtons, the fair maids 
of Kent, or the holy maids of Kent of our time ? No- 
tice the young lads who tripped down the altar stairs 
as though life had taught them only dancing measures, 
which they wish to hallow in the house of the Lord ; 
and the old ecclesiastic who sits so near the side 
entrance, accompanied by his daughter. What a fine 
face, framed in scanty silver locks and a skull cap ! 
Does he alone not care to commune on this summer 
morning amidst the innumerable silent throngs that 
fill the vast cathedral spaces ? Every other person has 
knelt at the altar, and brought back from it his own 
individual blessing ; when, see ! Two of the minister- 
ing clergy bearing the bread and wine come quietly 
down the central aisle, turn to the north entrance, and 
stand reverently while the feeble priest joins in the 
sacramental feast. The young and the old, high 
churchmen and liberals, local leaders, and curious vis- 
itors from across seas, the earnest and the frivolous 
— they have all carried away from this morning sacra- 
ment a deeper conception of the meaning of the 
Church Catholic, and a fuller sense of the kinship of 
all worshipers. I cannot think of any service in any 
church of England that could mean more to you and 
me than this early communion in Canterbury. As we 
come out through the porch of the marble saints, Bell 

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EIGHT' LANDS IN 



Harry with his mellow tones is beginning to count the 
hours from his central tower, just as he has done for 
saints and sinners these four hundred years. "Kneel, 
kneel, kneel," he calls to us. 




The. Norman Sta_trca.se. 

Later in the day we walked around the beautiful 
pile — I cannot tell you of what, partly church, partly 
ruins, partly ancient cloisters, partly modern deanery, 
partly the King's School, where every stranger goes 
to see the lovely Norman staircase. Everywhere gray 
stone and ivy, towers and cloisters and portals, set in 
English green of grass and forest trees. 

We are ready now to embark for France, knowing 
that there can be nothing better for our farewell mem- 
ory. From Chester to Canterbury our motherland 
has been all that heart could desire ; and we think that 
Shakespeare showed his usual sound sense when he 
put into the mouth of an English king this choice de- 
scription of his beloved island : 

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r EI'GHT WEEKS 



"This fortress, built by Nature for herself, 

Against infection and the hand of war, 

This happy breed of men, this little world, 

This precious stone set in the silver sea, 

Which serves it in the office of a wall, 

Or as a moat defensive to a house 

Against the envy of less happier lands; 

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England." 

"THIS ENGLAND." 

Monday Morning. 
Before the English Channel washes a single im- 
pression from my mind I must mention to you a few 
that have been growing upon us during our fortnight 
on English soil. First, the finished manner of speech 
of the women, especially the young women. We heard 
it first in the bookkeeper at our hotel, rich, ringing, 
clear and fine, as though speech were a pleasure 
instead of a necessity. Where did they get it? It 
belongs, as you see, not to the highest ranks alone, or 
to the highly cultivated. Has some princess set the 
fashion? or the heroines of the theatre? or the teach- 
ers of elocution? I am sure it was not noticeable a 
score of years ago. There is just a little lack of indi- 
viduality about it — a trifle of the sense of talking up 
to a standard ; but such a standard ! I could do no 
less than covet it for some of our slovenly talkers at 
home. I am sure one of these English barmaids would 
be a great addition to some of our eastern women's 
colleges. What do I mean, you indignantly ask. Well, 
come and see, or come and hear. Every word is 
spoken well, every tone is clear, and utterance is, as 
I have before said, "con amore." Among the men 
there is nothing equal to it, no corresponding richness 
of voice; but a certain courtesy in the uniform cir- 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



cumflex accent of their thank you, that is the oppo- 
site of carelessness, and a clear way of saying yes, 
as though they were not ashamed of it. When I 
heard an American D. D. answer "yep" to the hotel 
clerk to-day, I wanted to hide my face. 

Next, those flowers that I have already mentioned. 
Even in London they followed us; rows and rows of 
window boxes to gladden barren streets ; only that 
they had lost the taste and variety of the north. Red 
geraniums toward the windowpanes, and our Ameri- 
can daisies nodding to the street are a pretty combi- 
nation, but may be carried too far in a city of a few 
million windows. 

Third, a general habit of being well informed about 
one's own locality. I began to wonder how many 
cabmen could be found in a certain little city I know 
in America who could drive a company around for 
an hour, giving correct local and historical informa- 
tion about public buildings, residences and parks, as 
two cab drivers did for our eight in Edinburgh. Each 
carriage load was sure that it had the pleasanter and 
better informed man. This comes partly from the 
fact that an Englishman is brought up to a trade and 
expects to keep to it. With our American facility in 
taking up new trades, we often fail of excellence in 
any one of them. A guide who showed us about Ken- 
ilworth — quite a young man — said : "I 'ave made the 
study of this castle my business for years ; and al- 
though I'd not say that I know hevery thing about 
it, I 'ardly think there is any matter of himportance 
that I would leave out." And it seemed to us that 
he lived up to his professions. 

Last, the birds. Who would have thought that a 
London sojourn would favor us with performances by 
the lark, the robin and the nightingale? Well, this is 
the way it stands. An afternoon visit to Purley, a 

148 



EIGHT WEEKS 



little way down in Surrey, to greet old friends in their 
pretty country home, and see how they had turned 
two steep town lots into a bower of terraces and a 
velvet tennis court, gave us a twilight walk by fields 
and woods with larks warbling unseen high in the 
air, and one consenting robin ringing out a few notes 
for our benefit. And the nightingale ? You may think 
this a little facetious, but, when returning from a 
subway station amid the rattle of traffic, I heard a 
single clear voice, without effort and without fear, 
filling all the empty space with melody — a solitary 
woman at a street corner sanctifying the hurly-burly 
with song— I said to myself, "A London nightingale," 
and never since I entered the kingdom had I so 
longed to dispose of a little British money in the way 
of a fee; but I was too far away. The next day, on 
our own street, a solitary woman again, looking up at 
some quiet residences, was closing her song as I 
looked out. Clear, uplifted, rising with its theme, it 
slowly sounded forth Hal-le-lu-yah ! Glory in the 
highest ! "London nightingales," say I. 

Farewell to you, and farewell to old England. 

M. 



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\ 



PART III— FRANCE. 



XXI— ACROSS 1 m CHANNEL. 




Weather ltidlca-tuoti5» — Sinooth 

Monday, July 19, 
At the Hotel de France et d'Angleterre, Amiens. 

Dear friends: 

Nous void. All still alive, after the perils of the 
English Channel, and established in a typical 
French hotel of the Provinces. I dare say it 
would have been an interesting sight for an outsider 
to observe our eight attitudes toward this morning's 
journey. Some of us were careful about overeating 
at breakfast; others fortified themselves by a good, 
square meal. Some of us observed the winds, some 
the barometer. One speculated upon the passage ; 
another made preparations for spending her time in 
the steamer's cabin ; a third thought open air the best 
panacea for seasickness ; a fourth declared that one 
hour and a quarter could not possibly last long, and 
a fifth preferred to ignore mal de mer altogether and, 

153 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



according to one of our mottoes before recorded, be 
prepared for the best. Arrived on board, there was 
as much variety, for while we eagerly scanned the 
chalk cliffs of Dover, and thought of the well painted 
experiences of Gloucester in King Lear, some of us 
had secured seats where fresh air almost blew us from 
our chairs ; others found a sheltered nook in the sun ; 
some ate a hearty lunch, others almost none ; and our 
Lady in Green kept her eyes and thoughts on the 
baggage. And what was the result? The ill-reputed 
Channel, as far as eye could see, was as quiet as the 
placid waters of the St. Lawrence. My Lady of the 
Veil found her appetite suddenly returned when safely 
on the railway, and clamored for her neglected share 
of the lunch. 

But is it not surprising that this little strip of ocean, 
which the French call the Sleeve, this little blue strait 
only twenty miles in width, across which the two 
countries can view one another's hills on any fair day, 
should sunder nations so different, so often at war, 
of customs and characters unlike, and of tongues unin- 
telligible to one another? No sooner do we touch 
French soil than everything upon the wharf is heard 
to be chattering French — still worse, declines to un- 
derstand English, as though we had come from a land 
a thousand miles away. The customs officials cannot 
even put their noses into our suit-cases but in French, 
and My Lady of the Guide Book begins to feel her- 
self of immense importance. 

All along our railroad journey our eyes are to the 
windows, as though we were not dead asleep with 
our breath of ocean air, and we soon see that we have 
come to a landscape wholly different from that we have 
left behind. It would seem as though the northern 
coast of France could not be very unlike the southern 
coast of England ; but, whether it be soil, or prevailing 

J 54 



EIGHT WEEKS 



winds, or cultivation — we are in new surroundings. No 
more heavy, waxen leaves bending the trees down 
with their weight ; but delicate sprays of foliage lifted 
high on slender, swaying trunks, and recalling all the 
pictures we have ever seen by French artists. The 
green of the grass shows a similar difference, but is 
gay with scarlet poppies, blue corn-flowers, and other 
blossoms that we do not know. The fields are often 
wholly undivided, but oftener marked by a row of 
trees all around the border, giving delightful chances 
of shade to man and beast, without shutting off an 
appreciable amount of sun. Sometimes a road runs 
between these adjoining fields, which stretch out in 
straight lines from the railroad, and furnishes an in- 
stantaneous vista as it swings past. Even the forest 
trees have the same maiden-like slenderness, as though 
they were waiting for an artist of Barbizon. The vil- 
lages show roofs of red tile or grey slate, thatches 
being rare. All the places we whiz through on this 
express look prosperous, and we are glad in the larger 
towns to pass roomy playgrounds, well equipped and 
well patronized. Arrived in Amiens, we are to stay 
only long enough to see our first French cathedral and 
revive our memories of Peter the Hermit and his 
preaching of the First Crusade. 

Our hotel, which we chose because we loved Eng- 
land and hoped to love France, was at once a delight 
to us ; for, instead of presenting a proper front door 
with steps, as in England or America, it opens a wide 
portal where omnibuses, carts, and motor cars pass 
through to the paved court within; and across this 
court, with its balconies, flowers, and running water, 
we are privileged to trip back and forth between the 
dining rooms and the halls that lead to the chambers. 
The rooms are large and lofty, as though the place 
might have been a palace, and the bedsteads are piled 

155 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

with mattresses. Somewhere a German trait has crept 
in, for several of our party are at this moment stowed 
away under down comforters, and others under gen- 
uine feather beds, even though this is July. On our 
dining table the flowers at once delighted us with new 
blossoms and happy combinations ; but when we 
looked too close we found them of the genus that is 
independent of fresh water — in fact of silk. Now 
isn't that a French touch, to reach the home of arti- 
ficial flowers so soon ? 

We have been out to take our first view of the cathe- 
dral, and again we are happy. This city of some 
90,000 inhabitants is just as narrow of street and old 
in style in its centre as though its outskirts were not 
roomy with encircling boulevards and straight ave- 
nues, botanic gardens and parks. All European cities 
have this great advantage over those in the new world, 
that they have an opportunity to tear down their old 
walls and lay out boulevards in their place. Paris set 
the fashion when she enlarged her borders in the days 
of Louis XIV; and almost every French city has fol- 
lowed, or will soon follow, her lead ; only, unlike Paris, 
they are not building a new wall as a successor to the 
old. For centuries strength of defense was the first 
essential for a city ; and within the wall streets must 
be narrow and gardens few ; but the great public 
buildings, cathedral, city hall, palais de justice, as the 
courthouses are called in France, and many private 
palaces were made large and beautiful, so that when 
the nineteenth century came and cities had learned 
to live in peace with one another, there was a medieval 
centre worthy of preservation, around which a city 
built for comfort and natural beauty could unfold a 
bowery frame. Through cramped thoroughfares, then, 
past heavy walls with doors and windows framed 
palatially, or equally heavy business blocks with stuffy 

156 



EIGHT WEEKS 

little shops, we wind about, turn a few corners, and 
lo ! again we are in Fairyland of the deepest dye— of 
the most surprising transformations. For just a 
stone's throw away, across a proper little paved square, 
fronted with fine but modern buildings put up to do 
honor to their great neighbor, rises a thing of majesty 




157 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



and beauty, as though Canterbury's portico of saints 
had lifted up its head and grown into a whole house 
of God. Gray with age and glorious with sculpture, 
it lifts up towers of unlike designs on either side of 
its fagade, flanking a splendid rose window. 

Before the sunset light forsakes us, let us look a 
little more closely at this fagade. What marvels are 
these three vast portals, dedicated respectively to St. 
Firmin, the bishop martyr of Amiens, to our Lord, 
and to the Blessed Virgin ! In the tympanum of the 
central arch we see the Last Judgment — a good study, 
when you can get hold of a photograph to examine 
its hundred and fifty figures ; below the saints and 
apostles in relief, a colossal statue of Christ treading 
upon a lion and a dragon while his hand uplifted in 
blessing has endeared this figure to the city under the 
name of "The Beautiful God of Amiens." This statue 
is on the pillar that divides the portal in two, and 
around the receding vault are the Wise and Foolish 
Virgins. The other portals are of a similar arrange- 
ment, but representing scenes and saints appropriate 
to their leading motives. Along the base of them all 
is a pretty paneling in which, as you look nearer, you 
find that the centres are choice bas reliefs representing 
virtues and vices, trades, and family life. Above these 
three portals runs a gallery in which are ranged the 
forty-two kings of Israel. Still above this is the rose 
window thirty-five feet in diameter — that means larger 
than the drawing-room floor of any of you who read 
this; and then another short gallery connecting the 
towers. These are of unequal height and different 
style of openwork decoration — one with lancet win- 
dows of the thirteenth century, when the cathedral 
began to be; the other more ornate, of two hundred 
years later. A slender spire which the French call an 
arrow, soars up from the intersection to the giddy 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



height of 310 feet. This last is of wood covered with 
lead ; everything else is in gray stone — two beautiful 
portals to the south, in the tower and in the transept 
— the latter again having a rose with tracery, called 
the Wheel of Fortune, and another portal to the north 
which we cannot so easily study, because of the ad- 
joining buildings that in medieval economy of space, 
shut it out. 

To the east of the cathedral stands in bronze Peter 
the Hermit. His work was shaking all Europe to its 
foundations a hundred years before this ancient build- 
ing was begun. We are touching old days and far- 
reaching movements ; let us go back to our hotel and 
give our interests another widening stretch, while we 
dream under the feather beds. Will the temple also 
be beautiful within? 

Yes, it was more than satisfying, with its six score 
Gothic columns leaping up six score feet to the vaulted 
roof, and its aisles and chapels continuing all the way 
around the choir in what is known in French archi- 
tecture as a chevet; and for those who can take time 
to see it, the choir screen, with painted and gilded 
reliefs, and the choir stalls with hundreds of Bible 
scenes carved in wood, and thousands of figures intro- 
duced, are such marvels that one does not wonder at 
Baedeker's double stars. We are beginning to have 
considerable respect for these stars, and when we get 
back to our homes, and to that leisure that always 
beckons like the foot of the rainbow to its pot of gold, 
we'll take a solid week for Ruskin's "Bible of Amiens." 

Amiens and Rheims are rival cathedrals in their 
beauty and in their associations. We cannot see the 
latter on this journey, but it is only by laying main 
force upon my pen that I can spare you a comparison 
between the two. 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



We are to stop over a train at Beauvais to see 
French cathedral number two ; and by way of putting 
a distinct line of demarkation between these cathe- 
drals, just rhyme a little with me about Amiens' 
greatest saint: 



PETER OF AMIENS. 

What ho! good folk, for the Holy Land, 
The Holy City, the holy strand, 
To drive afar the infidel band 

From the grave of Christ the Lord ! 

What ho! good folk, for Jerusalem, 
For Nazareth, for Bethlehem, 
Till Japhet dwell in the tents of Shem 
By the grave of Christ the Lord ! 



It is the Monk of Amiens, 

He cometh from afar; 
He rideth on a lowly ass, 

But he bringeth words of war. 

He bringeth words from the Holy See, 
From Urban, Pope of Rome; 

A blessing on all that follow the cross, 
A curse on laggards at home. 



Peter of Amiens, whither away 
Along the dusty street, 

With cockle-shell and crucifix, 
And worshipers at your feet? 
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EIGHT WEEKS 



Oh, I am journeying far and far, 

Afar over land and sea 
To Canaan's shore, as once before, 

Where the holy sepulchres be. 

For erst I dwelt in Amiens town, 

And wife and child had I; 
Till Christ me left of all bereft, 

That I to him might fly. 

Howbeit, first in worldly wars 

I strove to drown my grief; 
But from sorrow and sin no voice within 

Would give my soul relief. 

And next I learned from holy monks 

To watch and fast and pray; 
My flesh I scourged, my sins I purged 

Through weary night and day. 

But even thus I found no peace, 

Nor yet in holy Rome; 
For ever a cry fell from the sky, 

"Flee from the wrath to come!" 

So last of all to Jerusalem 

For grace of pilgrimage; 
But alas ! For peace and sin's surcease 

I found the Seljuk's rage. 

And never in all the Flemish wars, 
Where Teuton strove with Frank, 

Had I harried my soul with deeds so foul 
That to the heavens stank. 
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EIGHT LANDS IX 



Thereat I vowed a solemn vow 

To God and His Holiness, 
That Walish land and Frankish land 

Should learn of our Lord's distress, 

Till they rouse themselves for a holy war, 

The war of wars for me, 
To bleed for Him who bled for us 

Long since on Calvary. 

So again my goal is Jerusalem, 

Jerusalem, my bride; 
And they be kith and kin to me 

Who will journey at my side, 

Until at last, on Olive's brow, 
We plant the conquering cross; 

Then rate we pains as golden gains, 
And earthly joy as dross. 

Behold, good folk ! For Bethlehem's star 
The Paynim's crescent glows afar 
And Turkish hordes the entrance bar 
To the grave of Christ the Lord. 

Now God Himself doth you invite 
To arm you for the holy fight, 
Set up your banners in His might, 
And battle for Christ the Lord! 



His head is bare, and bare his feet, 
His girdle a hempen rope; 

From Tiber to Seine his clarion voice 
Proclaimeth wrath and hope. 
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EIGHT WEEKS 



O flee away to the City of God, 
With heads adown and feet unshod, 
And mark with blood the path He trod 
To the grave of Christ the Lord ! 

For why, poor folk, should you tarry here 
While God in judgment draweth near 
To make your scarlet sins appear 
At the coming of Christ the Lord? 



Down steps the knight from his ivied tower, 
The prince steps down from his throne; 

And ladies clad in silken gowns 
Steal out from halls of stone. 

And mothers bring their weanling babes, 

And fathers lead their sons; 
Before the feet of the patient ass 

A crowd of children runs ; 

And cripple on crutch, and beggar in rags, 

And halt and lame and blind, 
And sinner and saint without complaint 

Leave land and love behind; 

Till towns are emptied of their folk 

And every trade is dead — 
The road aswarm with jostling crowds, 

The Hermit at their head. 

Awake, dull folk, the trumpets bray ! 
Gird up your loins and haste away 
To meet the judge on judgment day 
By the grave of Christ the Lord ! 
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EIGHT LANDS IN 



What ho, good folk, for sins forgiven, 
What ho, for peace and sinners shriven ! 
What ho, for the certain gate to Heaven 
By the grave of Christ the Lord ! 



Far, far away in "gray on gray" 
Peter the Hermit rides to-day, 
But down the line of the centuries nine 
His voice is calling clear and fine : 

What ho, good folk, for the Holy Land, 
The Holy City, the holy strand, 
To rout and flout the infidel band 
At the grave of Christ our Lord ! 



164 



EIGHT WEEKS 



XXII— BEAUVAIS. 

Tuesday, July 20. 

And here is Paris beginning to loom up on our 
horizon — not actually, but in our mind's eyes — our big- 
gest proposition yet; for though it is no larger than 
London, it has to be done in French, and so, as you 
may say, by us in a body; while in England's capital 
we were each one a law unto herself. 

But before we reach it you will stop over one train 
at Beauvais, will you not? 

Do you realize what a perfect network of cathedral 
towns you are passing through in reaching Paris? 
This is a regular tramping ground of old Gothic build- 
ers, and when one thinks of the shortness of time and 
the scarcity of money, and then reads over such names 
as Soissons and Laon, Rouen, Beauvais and Amiens, 
Caen and Evreux, and their compeers, he is near 
despair. However, any one cathedral helps you the 
better to understand the next, either from actual sight 
or from photograph. 

But aside from architecture, what is the use of 
these cathedrals, any way? Too large to worship 
in with any degree of convenience; too large to heat 
in winter; a great pile of architecture and sculpture 
with the seal of Christianity put on them — and prec- 
ious little Christianity in the results. Imagine the 
same money invested in a dozen comfortable 
churches, a hospital, an orphan asylum, and a few 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



schools; wouldn't that be much more to the glory of 
the Creator and in the spirit of the Man of Galilee? 

Ah, yes ; but churches exist for the glory of God in 
two ways : they represent Him as present in our 
midst as truly as they give us places for worship. 
Was it nothing to us to see the little spires point 
heavenward from the New Brunswick fishing hamlets ? 
And would you have just a little spire from a great 
city? Doesn't it make your heart leap up to see the 
House of God dwarf all the houses of the town, and 
to know that its beauty excels that of the Chamber of 
Commerce and the courts of law ! 

The beauty of holiness, you say, should dwell with- 
in us; and a score of decent little churches, with neat 
carpets on their floors and cushions on their cleanly 
seats, and fresh, warm air to breathe, would give a far 
better encouragement for the growth of Christian vir- 
tues than these cold vaults, with all their gorgeous 
windows. 

Now are you so sure of that? All people don't get 
their inspirations in the same way as yours. To come 
to church at the call of the bell, dressed all in Sunday 
clothes, and give a choice hour to praise and prayer 
and sermon, may be our best means of grace; but 
think of the thousands who come into these cathedrals 
in their every-day aprons, with their market baskets 
on their arms, and drop down on these pavements to 
tell the Christ or the Virgin of their wants. Does it 
mean nothing to them that the church is all glorious 
within, that its pillars are set with saints and its win- 
dows with holy tales? that a little light is burning on 
the altar as a welcome to them in the great darkness? 
a little light that means to them "My Lord is sacri- 
ficed for me." 

You don't much think that the greatness and ex- 
pense means anything to these simple people who wor- 

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ship in these simple ways. You say that the little 
churches are just as much frequented, provided they 
have enough of tawdry ornament and a lot of cheap 
saints to appeal to the ignorant craving for images. 

Ah, but the cathedral is the church of the whole 
diocese; it must measure itself to fit the needs of all 
ranks, and to give inspirations to all souls ; it is the 
mother church, and must be spacious enough to show 
hospitality to all the children. It grows from gener- 
ation to generation, and carries traditions down from 
century to century. Perhaps it may be our good for- 
tune on some feast day to see a few thousand people 
gather without crowding in one of these vast temples, 
hear the great organ and an orchestra beside roll 
the praises out upon the air, as I once did at Rheims; 
watch the long processions go round and round among 
the pillars, and get a little idea of what it means to 
worship "in the great congregation." Do you believe 
that Greeks and Romans and Jews were more of hypo- 
crites and less of God worshipers because they made 
their temples of the best they had, and fashioned them 
according to their highest standards? And just sup- 
posing that we had a glorious cathedral in our town, 
with sculpture and painting that threw our private 
possessions into the shade, don't you believe that the 
pride we should have in it would be a refiner to our 
character and an inspiration to those good works of 
mercy for which you have put in a plea? 

Thus My Lady Persistent and I have been talking 
these things over just a few miles away from giddy 
Paris; and although we cannot answer all the ques- 
tions that we ask ourselves, we feel that those very 
questions may set us on the way toward the truth. 

But now you must hear about Beauvais, that giant 
that miscalculated his powers, and having tried to 
outdo all his fellows, has been on his penitent knees 

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for three or four centuries since. The cathedral is a 
huge cripple, as you would see from the car window 
— a choir and transepts with neither nave nor towers, 
but such a mountain of buttresses and windows that 
you are sure you want to stop over and see it. Cabs 
are scarce in Beauvais, and having let the city bus 
escape while deciding what disposal to make of bag- 
gage, we walk a good half mile and interview unnum- 
bered citizens, drivers of private carriages, and livery 
owners, before we secure a conveyance that will man- 
age to carry three. We take it by the hour and keep 
it running between the station and the cathedral, with 
side trips out into the boulevards ; for one likes, beside 
seeing the one object of a visit, to carry away some 
little idea of the city; and this one is quite attractive 
in its contrast between its streets of eight-foot width 
and its central square, large, open, with dignified 
medieval buildings all around and fountain and statues 
in the middle. The pedestrians wondered how they 
were ever to climb the hill on which the cathedral 

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stood; but arrived at its foot, there was no hill to 
climb ; the great building itself had done all the climb- 
ing. And therein lay its weakness. Begun in the 
earliest days of the Gothic, when architects were ex- 
pecting miracles of these pointed arches, traceried 
windows and flying buttresses to support roofs of 
stone — its plan called for the loftiest roof in existence 
and the slenderest supports. But twice this bold roof 
fell in, the buttresses had to be increased in number, 
the glorious portal and rose window of the south 
transept must take the place of the intended west 
facade; even the slender spire that shot up from the 
intersection for 450 feet at last crashed down for lack 
of a west nave to buttress it, and so the giant has 
been obliged to tarry ever since in the midst of his 
mad career, patiently looking down on the little old 
Romanesque church at his foot, smug and content, 
as who should say, "Oh, no, I am not proud ; only 
faithful," and realizing that it stands exactly where 
his great nave was to have risen. How do they think 
of one another — the splendid cripple, holding his head 
high in disgrace, and the little elder brother, with 
memories of Pepin and Charlemagne? 

Now come inside, and you do not wonder if this 
fallen prince is proud. Did you ever lift your head 
to such heights and to such magnificence? Back and 
forth you wander, trying to take the vastness in ; look- 
ing now at the glory of the windows, now at the tap- 
estries hung along the west wall ; now walking 
through the aisles and around the ambulatory, now 
right under the highest arch of the roof. Will it 
choose this particular moment to fall once more, and 
include us in its great catastrophe? My Lady in 
Green insists on having us each take a special prome- 
nade along the north aisle, where the comparatively 
low arching shuts off the upper part of a slender win- 

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dow in that unhappy west wall. As you approach it 
you see more and more of the window, higher and 
higher ; one section of the tracery above another ; your 
head lifts, your neck aches ; and when at last the top 
comes in sight your stunt is finished and my Lady 
hopes that you realize to what a height you are look- 
ing. In the meantime My Lady Practical, who wishes 
to miss no good thing ; My Lady Persistent, who bears 
her out in such ambitions, and one or two others have 
allowed a certain custodian to think that they would 
like to see the marvelous clock, a rival of the clock of 
Strasburg — this clock with half a hundred faces and 
four score stories to tell — this clock of 90,000 pieces — 
as though we were not looking at 90,000 pieces when- 
ever we give a glance at this interior! With such 
tales of magic they are beguiled behind a great wooden 
partition, most inappropriate in these artistic sur- 
roundings, are relieved of several francs and a half- 
hour of time, while the delighted verger puts his piece 
of mechanism through its paces and uses his most 
charming French on uncomprehending ears. 

Photographs, of course, of the cathedral and of 
Norman peasants with kindly, seamed faces at work 
in caps and blouses in the doors of their country cot- 
tages — these we buy in haste between the stationward 
trips of our one cab ; a last look at the pretty parks 
that have been laid out as entrances to the town — for 
these European cities have an idea that a place should 
turn its best face toward the railway station, instead 
of its slums and back doors — and we are in our re- 
served compartment, tired and happy; hungry, too, 
and wondering what good things Paris has in store 
for us. 

And now we are passing railroad tracks innumer- 
able, walls many, so that we seem to have entered the 

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city a dozen times. Paris is actually near at hand ; 
farewell until I can tell you more about it. 

Take warning from Beauvais ; throw away ambi- 
tion ; don't get nervous prostration by insisting that 
your this year's work shall outdo all its predecessors 
before you take your summer holiday. I know some 
of your Beauvaisian tendencies in that direction. 
Farewell, and fare slowly. 

M. 



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XXIII— PARIS. 




Mes chers amis: 

I have said that Paris is a big proposition. To 
do anything satisfactorily with it in less than a 
week you need to know beforehand all that you will 
know in the end ; and then you will be able 
to spend all your time in getting to the scheduled 
places, and all your brains in taking in the scheduled 
works of art. If any of you who are hoping to visit 
the city next year are not already cyclopedias of 
French history, I would suggest that you get a few 
of the salient and most picturesque points arranged as 
pegs in your mind in such order that you can hang 
further acquisitions of knowledge neatly and easily 
upon them, and I give you a little table here that may 
be useful, but would better be skipped by those of you 

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who know it already, and by those who don't know it 
at all. It is only good for freshening up faded bits of 
knowledge, and for preventing that sense of confusion 
that comes from trying to put a new fact with an old 
one that has escaped you : 

Ancient Gaul, conquered by Julius Caesar, 54-51 B. C. 

Held by Rome till the Battle of Soissons by Clo- 

vis, 486 A. D. St. Denis (Dyonisius), Chris- 
tian martyr, 270. 
Franks, from across the Rhine, became permanent 

rulers. 

Merovingian Kings. Clovis, baptized 496 A. D. 
by St. Remi (Remigius), using the Ste. Am- 
poule, holy vase, brought by an angel from 
Heaven. 

Ste. Genevieve, patron saint during these times, 
422-522. 

Carolingians (752-987). Pepin, Charlemagne — ; 
called by his German subjects Karl der 
Grosse. 
Capetians (987-1328.) 

Hugh Capet made Paris his capital. Notre Dame 
begun 1 1 63. 

Philip Augustus, 1 180-1223. Third Crusade with 
Richard I of England. The "Second 
Founder of Paris," includes in one wall La 
Cite on the island, La Ville, north bank, and 
L'Universite, south bank. 

Louis IX — St. Louis, 1226-1270. Sorbonne 
founded, Ste. Chapelle built. 
House of Valois, 1328-1589. 

Hundred Years' War with England, 1339- 1453. 
Joan of Arc relieves Orleans, 1429; crowns 
Charles VII at Rheims ; burned by the Eng- 
lish at Rouen, 143 1. 

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Francis I, a third remarkable ruler with Henry 
VIII, England, and Charles V, Germany ; 
begins the Louvre ; makes a fortress of 
Fontainebleau. 
Catherine de Medici, with her son, Charles IX. 
Massacre of St. Bartholomew, 1572; Conde, 
Caligny; Huguenots. 
House of Bourbon, 1 589-1 793. 

Henry of Navarre, and his white plume ; Edict 

of Nantes, 1598; Marie de Medici ; Richelieu. 

Louis XIV, le grand monarch. Lays out the 

first boulevards. 
Louis XVI and queen, Marie Antoinette, die on 
the guillotine at the hands of the revolu- 
tionists. 
First republic, 1793- 1804. 
First empire, Napoleon, 1804-1814. 
Restoration of kings, 1814-1848. 
Second republic, 1848-1852. 
Second empire, Louis Napoleon, 1852- 1870. 
Third republic, following Franco-Prussian war, 1870. 

Now for topography. Conduct the River Seine, a 
little narrower than the Thames at London, from east 
to west in a big northerly curve through the southern 
part of the heart-shaped, walled city ; on its north bank 
place the Louvre; west of that the splendid combi- 
nation of avenue and park known as the Champs 
Elysees, leading up to the Arc de Triomphe, and 
farther north the finest boulevards and residence 
streets. In the river put the island, "La Cite," on 
which stands Notre Dame and the Ste. Chapelle. 
South of the river place the Latin Quarter, the Lux- 
embourg Palace and Gardens — a grand pleasure 
ground for old and young; the Sorbonne, the 
Pantheon, the Hotel des Invalides (Napoleon's 



EIGHT WEEKS 



tomb), and not far off the Eiffel Tower. Out- 
side the city, at the west, place the finest park — the 
Bois de Boulogne ; at the east the Bois de Vincennes ; 
north, some miles away, St. Denis with its cathedral, 
the burial place of kings ; to the southwest Versailles, 
palace and gardens, forced into existence at the ex- 
pense of millions on an arid plain by Louis XIV, one 
of the great palaces of Europe ; to the southeast Fon- 
tainebleau in a lovely region of hills and valleys, rocks 
and forests, a chateau, a fortress, a palace of gradual 
growth. 

Add to these the cemeteries of Pere LaChaise and 
others, the Jardin des Plantes, which is botanical gar- 
den and zoo combined ; the sewers, where you may 
take a pleasant underground sail through well flushed 
canals ; the catacombs, where the bones of the poor 
are stowed away after a few years' rest in the earth ; 
forty museums besides the Louvre and the Luxem- 
bourg; the tapestry manufactures of les Gobelins, the 
porcelain factory at Sevres, and a few other trifles to 
the number of about ten thousand. 

The methods of handling this problem are various 
and simple. My Lady Bright Eyes has chosen the sim- 
plest ; she has taken a fine cold and gone to bed. Our 
Lady of the Star has hitched her chariot to the Louvre, 
than which one could not do better; for come what 
may in changing seasons and attractions many, there 
stand the marble gods and gods of granite, row on 
row, and pillared hall on hall ; there hang the visions 
of the world's painters in their gold frames along 
miles of palace walls ; there are the tapestries and 
brocades and laces, the carved and inlaid woods, the 
ivories and porcelains, the embossed gold and fretted 
silver of generations of cunning artificers, all ready 
to rejoice your hearts and enlighten your minds. My 
Lady of the Veil and some few others decide to vi- 

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brate between shows and shops; for besides the ten 
thousand things mentioned above, there is a trifle of 
ten thousand shops ! The rest of us have adopted 
what might be called a process of renunciation ; every 
day we shall cut off a dozen or two essentials that 
cannot be done, and get in a hurried look at two or 
three that are achievable, ending up, probably, in a 
shop, or possibly, to our great content, in the Opera 
House. 

This plain and easy course being decided upon, we 
next consider our means of locomotion. The two- 
story trams, which were long the delight of sight- 
seers here, now thunder back and forth across the 
streets, propelled by some automobile power which 
renders them perfectly safe, perfectly frightful to the 
passenger, who lurches this way and that, and so 
noisy that communication on them is at the peril of 
your vocal cords. The cab and cabmen remain ubiq- 
uitous, and are less despotic now that they have rivals 
in automobiles ; they are generally accommodating and 
courteous, and if not always the soul of honesty, still 
are vastly improved by that little system of self-reg- 
istering prices by which the traveler watches a dial 
mark the francs as the time and distance fly by. But 
a cab, when you are bound from one side of Paris to 
another, looks like a slow thing in these days. For 
the longest distances the subway or "tube" is the 
thing; but even the tube has many stops to make, 
many changes of carriage, many steps to climb, cor- 
ridors to race through, and elevators to take in this 
process of changing; add to which the fact that the 
stations are not always right at hand, but are always 
reached by a long plunge of stairs down into the bow- 
els of the earth, and you will see that it requires a 
person of brains and brawn to travel on the "sou- 
terrain." Now what remains after these three and the 

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old, horse-drawn omnibus, which is both slow and 
noisy, is the autocab, which is a terror to pedestrians, 
but a comfort to the sightseer. It is almost as noisy 
as the autotram ; but it is as absolutely at your disposal 
as a cab, registers its distances and prices right before 
your eyes, and has only this drawback — that it keeps 
you always weighing in your mind so much stop 
against so much money, one extra corner against one 
extra franc, until you feel like an automatic register 
yourself. After all which consideration I think we 
will have our porter whistle for two of these con- 
venient conveyances, finish all important intercom- 



TTTaja of- YcLhJA 




munications before we start, have our bronchial tubes 
insured, and set forth on a half-day's sightseeing. 

Having been well put on your feet, or put into your 
auto, so to speak, in regard to history, topography 
and notable sights, you will be enabled by two or 

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three tours like to-day's to play that you have spent 
a month in Paris, n'est-ce pas? (isn't that so?) That's 
a little phrase that the French use when they expect 
you to say yes, but think you may possibly say no. 

The traveler's first day seldom begins in the morn- 
ing; there are so many plans to decide upon, besides 
the weariness of yesterday's journey to recover from ; 
but there is enough of the twelve hours left to-day 
for a good bit of sightseeing. 

We will begin at the Louvre (i) as the real centre 
of the north side. See how it lies along the river for 
almost half a mile, stretching its two arms to the 
west ; how it has grown in three centuries from the 
east court of Francis I through countless wings and 
pavilions added by the Bourbons and Napoleon; also 
how it gives us a splendid study of architecture, from 
the dignified classic style of the east court to the 
high-water mark of French Renaissance in the man- 
sard roofs, ornate chimneys, and groups of sculpture 
of the west wings. The Palace of the Tuileries used 
to connect these western extremities till the Com- 
munists of 1 871 blew up this detested home and 
opened to the nation the lovely gardens before re- 
served for kings. 

We continue to the west, through the Champs 
Elysees to the unrivaled Arc de Triomphe (2), erected 
by Napoleon, from which place handsome residence 
streets diverge in all directions, giving the site the 
name of the Place d'fitoile — place of the star; then to 
the north and east so as to pass through the principal 
boulevards — broad streets with rows of trees down 
the centre — stopping on the way for a quick glance 
at the Opera House (3), one of the largest and hand- 
somest in Europe, and at the Madeleine (4), a huge 
Greek temple without, a Renaissance church within ; 
then further east to the Place de la Republique (5), 

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where a lofty bronze statue of the Republic in per- 
son, with her attendant genii of Liberty, Equality, Fra- 
ternity, furnishes the focal point for a good civic 
centre; south to the Place de la Bastille (6), where 
the July Column performs a like service on the spot 
where the old prison was torn down during the Revo- 
lution ; a little way to the west to the beautiful Hotel 
de Ville (7), and here we are near the river, opposite 
the island and Notre Dame (8), having completed a 
tour of the central part of the North Side. Do you 
notice how these last three points emphasize that rise 
of the common people that has come by fearful par- 
oxysms, but has come to stay? The July Column 
rejoices over the downfall of Bourbon tyranny in 1789 
and the second struggle against it in the July 
Revolution of 1830, which put the Orleanist "citizen 
king" upon the throne. The Place de la Republique 
belongs to the rise of the third republic in 1870, and 
so, in a way, does the Hotel de Ville, which had 
always been a rallying point for the popular cause, 
but fell at the hands of the Communists of '71, to be 
re-erected when the true Republicans recovered power. 
Notice, also, what these boulevards and open 
grounds have done for this part of Paris ; the wilder- 
ness of narrow streets where discontent used to brew, 
they have opened up to the air and light, have given 
space for markets and street fairs, and for daily play- 
grounds for little children. The fact strikes us most 
forcibly, coming from the pretty, locked gardens in 
London squares, that every park in Paris is free to 
every citizen. Liberte, figalite, Fraternite — the motto 
seen on every public building — is not an empty boast. 
Do you realize what it means that all these forty mu- 
seums I have counted up are thrown open to the 
public for love? — to us the visiting public, as well as 
to the residents? How many francs does that save a 

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party of eight in one short visit? In what other city 
of Europe shall we receive such hospitality? 

One more fact while we are touring these boule- 
vards. Although the original ones follow in general 
the curve of the old walls, this is a curve made up of 
many straight lines. At every bend a new name is 
given ; as far as one name runs the vista is con- 
tinuous ; and all the newer boulevards are long and 
straight. This means that there are really no winding 
streets in Paris except the old boulevard on the South 
Side, St. Germain, and that this city early attained 
what other cities are just striving after, a wonderful 
system of civic centres with converging vistas. Except 
for our beautiful Washington, laid out by a French- 
man with a lot of good Parisian points in mind, where 
can you find anything like it? Here is a pleasant 
experience of long ago on the upper story of a tram. 
Having asked some information of a courteous gen- 
tleman at my side, I was expressing my thanks and 
my appreciation of Paris, when I met this response : 
"Yes, Paris is the most beautiful city I know but one, 
and that one is Washington." And after all this com- 
pliment you know that I cannot refrain from asking 
you and us, Why are not we of the small cities far- 
sighted like our illustrious chief ? Why do we not call 
in the expert, so available in these days, to plan our 
thoroughfares, our squares, our breathing places, be- 
fore our central points are occupied with buildings too 
expensive to be sacrificed? Why not take the privi- 
lege of the adolescent, instead of hurrying ourselves 
into a state of ugly maturity ? In short, here is Paris, 
and here is Washington, but where are we? 

After which exhortation we will sign our chauffeur 
to go on across the Pont Notre Dame to the Island of 
la Cite, the original Paris. 

At our left is the huge Hotel Dieu, the most famous 
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EIGHT WEEKS 



of the twenty hospitals of the city, because it replaces 
the original Hotel Dieu of the seventh century, sup- 
posed to have been the oldest hospital in Europe. At 
our right is the flower market, where we at once feel 
inclined to give up all further sightseeing and devote 
ourselves to these most fresh and fragrant wares of 
most attractive saleswomen. Who can put flowers 
together like a French flower girl ? Wind the pots so 
neatly with paper of just the right color; set every 
plant in the surroundings that will show it at its best ; 
wrap the cut flowers so daintily that not a leaf will be 
crushed; and, finally, inveigle you out of the pence 
you had saved for your morning jam, to buy a nose- 
gay for your breakfast table ? Fortunately our chauf- 
feur is not easily arrested, and we are beyond peril 
and ready to alight for a short visit to Notre Dame. 
We know its dignified front, sculptured portals, rose 
window and towers and gallery from the photographs 
so common at home; but we are not prepared for the 
sense of largeness and warmth that greet us as we 
enter our first cathedral with double aisles, its vast 
spaces flooded with the light from three rose windows. 
By a good chance the great organ is filling the air 
with melody, I should think from all its 6,000 pipes; 
and though we tarry but a moment, remembering our 
chauffeur at the door, we are carrying away a new 
and lasting impression. Notre Dame dates from 
1 163, being one of the earliest churches of the French 
Gothic. The round pillars show us that, for they are 
a reminder of the Romanesque. How did those first 
architects achieve such a success? And to think that 
in one of the city's paroxysms between the beheading 
of her king and of her queen, she came near to pulling 
down this, her joy and pride ! That was in the au- 
tumn of 1793, and before the year was over she had 
insulted it hardly less by converting it into a Temple 

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Hotte (J) 



OU/H& 



of Reason, Liberty being enthroned in place of the 
Virgin, and a "torch of truth" flaming before Reason, 
exalted for worship in a Greek temple in the choir ! 
Then, for eight years, the church sat desolate, her 
portals closed, her sunny aisles unused, and awaited 
her fate. Napoleon restored her to her sacred uses in 

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time to crown himself emperor at her altar. In 1871 
she was again in peril from the Communists. What 
a memory such a church must have ! 

At the west end of the island we visit the Palais 
de Justice, which has been growing- into its present 
immensity from the days of Roman governors and 
Frankish kings. It, too, has thrilling memories, among 
them those of Queen Marie Antoinette, who was a 
prisoner in its dungeons near the Seine — the part 
called the conciergerie — and of her executioner, Robe- 
spierre, who a little later shared her fate. 

But from the tragedies which we would gladly for- 
get we turn to the ancient royal chapel built by St. 
Louis in the thirteenth century to hold the relics he 
had bought from the king of Jerusalem. It is a small 
church, more like the choir of a cathedral — but such 
a choir ! Window after window towering up to the 
roof, like those in the Chapter House at York, all 
ablaze with color, and held by such narrow spaces of 
buttressed walls as to make this seem a church of 
glass. In our days such a building is not impossible. 
One admires, and adds, "Steel framework, of course." 
But in the stone age of architecture — Oh, beautiful 
age, never to be outdone ! — it was little less than a 
miracle. We visit both stories — for there was a 
lower church for palace "help" and an upper church 
for crowned heads — and find the lower much simpler, 
but beautiful in proportions, and adorned with the 
lilies of France all over its colored and gilded walls. 
The lilies, as we learn, have been so long a favorite 
emblem in France that one wishes they might still 
have a place in the flag of the Republic. The first 
general standard for the nation seems to have been 
the oriflamme — or golden flame — adopted by Philip 
I in 1060. It was a scarlet jagged pennant hung 
from a golden staff, adopted from the martyred Saint 

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Denis, and, except when carried in battle, was kept 
hanging over the altar of the church of his name. 
This banner was lost at the battle of Agincourt, 1415. 
It was followed by a white banner sprinkled over with 
the golden lilies or fleur de lis of the House of Valois. 
The Bourbons reduced the lilies to three in number, 
and represented them on a ground of blue or of red. 
The Republic swept away all lilies, but kept the three 
colors in three upright stripes. Napoleon found that 
Charlemange had once used the honey bee as a sym- 
bol of his industry, and desiring to emulate that great 
ruler in all things, adopted it as his coat of arms. The 
present Republic has, of course, gone back to the 
tri-color. 

From this Sainte Chapelle we pass to what was 
once the palace, now the halls of the judges and law- 
yers of the supreme court. They flit about in black 
gowns that trail on state occasions, but are now neatly 
looped up with pins, intent on briefs and judgments. 
They rule now where velvet trains and clanking armor 
once held sway. But good King Louis used also to 
sit under an oak to judge his people's cause; and I 
like to think of him looking down on the ably ad- 
ministered courts of his beloved France. 

Now you know that our brains will not bear any 
more city sights and memory nudges on this our first 
day ; so let us take a restful little steamer down the 
Seine and look up at its thirty bridges as we pass 
underneath. Are they not a battalion to be proud of? 
No two alike, but every one calculating exactly the 
distance from shore to shore and the necessary bracing 
of shoulders to bear the day's burden. And see what 
a graceful whole results in each case from the right 
combination of arches and girders of steel, so as to 
give an impression of lightness as well as strength. 
Occasionally statuary adds a crowning touch, as when 

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Henry IV rides on horseback at the highest point of 
Pont Neuf, or where handsome groups guard the 
approaches to Pont Alexander III. But mostly it is 
the bridge itself that gives the sense of beauty and 
the great variety of excellences revealed to us as each 
new bridge comes sailing up over our heads. Patient, 
beautiful creatures, year in and year out. You have 
a pretty word to say to us fellow-bearers about carry- 
ing the day's burden well and gladly, and you say it 
in much plainer speech than some of your compatriots 
who have tried to make us understand their parlez- 
vous to-day. 

Good night, and choose your dreams between rose 
windows and steel bridges ; but dream not of the auto- 
bus, nor even of the necessary autocab. 

Lovingly yours, 

M. 



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XXIV— PARIS. 

Paris, Thursday, July 22. 

We are holding grand councils of war in regard to the 
palace which we shall attack, for a palace we surely 
must capture in France, considering that in England we 
merely took an hour's look at Hampton Court. We 
range up our eight in two lines and make them give 
in turn the strongest arguments for Versailles and 
for Fontainebleau. My Lady of the Guide Book tries 
to be an impartial advocate for both sides. Then we 
resolve ourselves into a jury of eight and sit upon 
the evidence. After this mixed battle and court, we 
revert to other themes, and the next day begin the 
discussion all over again. The evidence, or influence, 
or heavy artillery stood this morning as follows : 

Versailles lies nearer Paris, but Fontainebleau will 
give us a lovely trip up the Seine. Versailles is a 
triumph of art over nature — and here follows an ac- 
count of the millions which Louis XIV sank in this 
"abyss of expenses," and of the 36,000 men and 8,000 
horses employed at one time upon the terraces and 
drives — but Fontainebleau, on the other hand, is set 
in a region of magnificent timber and rocky gorges, 
its forest the forest in France, and is immortalized by 
Corot, Rousseau, Millet, and the rest of the Bar- 
bison school. Versailles is said to be so lovely that 
the sight of it is like Paradise to the Peri, and in 
itself is worth a journey across the sea. Fontaine- 
bleau is of "extent and magnificence almost un- 

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EIGHT WEEKS 

equalled." Versailles has been the favorite royal 
abode ever since Louis XIV; but Fontainebleau has 
been a favorite since the Louis of half that number, 
and has been especially distinguished by the residence 
of Francis I and of Napoleon Bonaparte. Versailles 
saw Louis XVI set upon by the revolutionists of 1789, 
and forced to follow their lead to his Tuileries home 
in town ; Fontainebleau saw two great divorces — Louis 
XIV divorcing France from religious liberty in sign- 
ing the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and Na- 
poleon signing the divorce of Josephine. But in Ver- 
sailles, you must remember, the German states elected 
William I head of the new empire ; and in Fontaine- 
bleau Napoleon reviewed his troops when he escaped 
like a caged eagle from Elba. In fact, the two pal- 
aces held their own pretty well thus far, and gave us 
opportunity to air all the bits of knowledge we had 
set out with, besides those we were always accumu- 
lating by the way. But when it came to Versailles' 
double-starred galleries of battle scenes, to the hall of 
the mirrors, to the two Trianons, one built for Mme. 
de Maintenon and one for Marie Antoinette; when, 
over all the other marvels the great fountains and the 
little fountains threw their silver sheen — the charms 
of Fontainebleau began to slip soberly back into the 
shadow, and it was generally felt that if, for any un- 
foreseen reason, those fountains should decide to play 
during this present week instead of on the first Sun- 
day of the month (and at a cost, remember, of 10,000 
francs), there would no longer be any doubt which 
palace we would visit. 

At this point we decide to seize the fleeting moment 
and let the palace wait. So, with those same accom- 
modating chauffeurs, we take the south shore to-day, 
and see how much of our list we can mark off. 

Starting from La Cite, where we broke off yester- 
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day, we turn directly south through the boulevard St. 
Michel, and find ourselves in the midst of scholarly 
Paris. It is a shock to an English-speaking traveler 
to discover that so prominent a boulevard is not known 
by name to the Parisians ; many an American has but- 
tonholed policemen in vain when in search of St. 
Michel's ; but ask for a certain San Mishell, and you'll 
find it without the least difficulty, and the Archangel 
himself, dragon and all, fronting you over a fountain 
place as you enter from the bridge. 

See what an atmosphere of learning we are plung- 
ing into. A little way down the river — as little ways 
go with autos — we should find the renowned Institute 
of France (9), whose five faculties of the sages keep 
the language and letters, the logic and ethics of the 
nation up to the standard. A little beyond this is the 
School of Fine Arts (10) ; but close at hand at our 
right is the School of Medicine (11), and its clin- 
iques, and at our left the huge Sorbonne (12). This 
last was founded by Sorbonne, the confessor of St. 
Louis, as a hostelry for poor students of theology, but 
during these seven hundred years has widened its 
scope until now it embraces three departments of the 
University of Paris — those of theology, literature and 
science — and is installed in a splendid pile of build- 
ings occupying several blocks, and gathering about it 
the College de France, law schools, normal schools, 
technical schools and preparatory schools. 

You understand now why this part of Paris is called 
the Latin Quarter, and why its residences, lodgings 
and restaurants put cheapness and comfort before 
style. Here is your place for renting microscopic 
flats, where a pretty rug, a few engravings from a 
second-hand shop, a couch with pillows, some rush- 
bottomed chairs and one large one of willow, a table 
and a bit of drapery will make you think you are the 

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EIGHT WEEKS 

King of Yvetot, or one of his courtiers. Add a tiny 
tea set, and you can have all your friends from the 
nearby artists' quarter for afternoon guests. But we 
are in our auto. "Let us return to our sheep," say 
the French. 

Just back of the Sorbonne, but facing an avenue 
that runs to the boulevard, is the Pantheon (14), first 
a church in memory of beloved Ste. Genevieve and 
built above her tomb ; then made by the revolutionists a 
pantheon, or temple, to all the gods — that is, the 
heroes of the nation ; and after that alternately church 
or temple, as the changing government has decreed. 
It is an impressive Renaissance Greek cross with lofty 
dome and a porch of Corinthian columns, splendid 
within through its wall paintings, in which Ste. Gene- 
vieve and Ste. Joan of Arc vie with each other as 
heroines, and through its vaults with marble tombs of 
the good and the great. How to draw a line between 
these two when it comes to a decision between church 
and temple, and how much honor to allow the really 
great on the part of the really good — this is the prob- 
lem that has knocked this Westminster of Paris back 
and forth between church and state. Woe is us if 
there should some day be such difficulty of judgment 
in the courts on high ! 

In this region, too, but a little nearer the Seine, lies 
the Hotel de Cluny (13), where we shall want to stay 
a week. During our first day's tour we thought Paris 
phenomenal in the number of its hotels, but now, with 
the mature experience of two days, we understand 
that that term hotel applies to any elegant building, as 
does also the word "palais." This hotel, or museum, 
of Cluny was first the residence of the few Roman 
emperors who used to sojourn here, Constantius and 
Julian especially, and of the earliest Frankish kings, 
but in the Middle Ages was handed over in a ruined 

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state to the Monks of Cluny, who into its old arches, 
halls and thermae built a convent. The revolutionists 
turned this over to the state, which later made it a 
museum for the historic bric-a-brac of centuries. Just 
imagine every possible setting, from an ivy-grown 
castle court to a convent chapel, and every historic 
and artistic object of interest from broken capitals 
to Cluny laces ; stained glass, wood carvings and 
brass work ; altar pieces and chimney pieces ; crosiers 
and hunting horns; gold plate and gold crowns; 
swords set with jewels and chess-boards with men 
of crystal; crosses in copper and silver and enamel; 
ivory-bound gospels and illuminated missals ; and 
everywhere tapestries, old chests and carved tables — 
how can one grasp it, or carry it away ? Just as well 
to dismiss that chauffeur out of hand and stay here 
till lunch time. 

Do you know what a charming thing a lunch at a 
Paris restaurant may be? Now I don't mean at a 
high-toned thing of marble and mirrors, where you 
see yourself in your hundred worst traveling lights, 
and linger laboriously through a table d'hote; I mean 
a neat but cheap lunch place, where you set out to 
see how good a meal you can get for a quarter. It 
may be an "fitablissement Duval," with its black- 
frocked, white-capped maids, where you pay separately 
for every item, from napkins to bread; or it may be 
at a "fixed price" eating room, where for your quarter 
or a little more you have your choice of three out of 
five courses. At either place it is better for you to 
be two, for then you order mutton for one and salad 
for one, cheese for one and fruit for one, and have 
enough for both of you. And such salads ! Be sure 
not to omit the salad. Such crisp lettuce and chicory 
and cress ; and when you get one of those things that 
is a mixture of half a dozen greens served in a good 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



French dressing, you don't need much additional rel- 
ish. But what a fearful appetite one accumulates while 
deciding which is the very best hour for lunch, and 
which the nearest restaurant ! French breakfasts of 
coffee and rolls do hint at an early lunch ; but French 
dinners at half-past seven make a late lunch imper- 
ative ; and this daily problem of seven days in the 
week suggests to tourists the desirability of falling into 
German ways and having five meals a day. The air 
is full of pretty rumors about English afternoon tea 
and French after-dinner coffee ; but hotel proprietors 
can generally forget those possibilities most blandly. 

Refreshed by lunch, we take an hour in the Luxem- 
bourg (15), gallery of modern art, where we are im- 
pressed by a lot of ability, rather too much nudity, 
and a French sensationalism in some of the sculpture 
that seems less in the most modern works. Then we 
rest our eyes and limbs in the Luxembourg Gardens. 
What a model of playgrounds for old and young ! 
Trees overhead, harmless gravel underfoot, flowers 
and shrubs and fountains and statues at intervals, 
plenty of benches, lots of little children digging in the 
ground, hauling carts and coddling dollies while their 
mothers and nurses knit; boys and men playing ball, 
a merry-go-round here, a Punch and Judy show there, 
and room enough for everybody. This, you know, is 
right in the heart of the thickly settled Latin Quar- 
ter, and is the old palace grounds of Marie de Medici, 
whom Rubens exploits in his gorgeous, florid style in 
a great room in the Louvre. See all the pretty queens 
of France standing in a circle about this bit of garden. 
I'm sorry that time is blackening their marble ; I trust 
it does not blacken their fame as well. 

Another auto to get us to Napoleon's tomb (16) 
before closing hour. Twice already we have found 
the iron gate calmly locked in our faces. No, here 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 

we are at last before the gilded dome and entering this 
unique marble tomb — white, white on all sides except 
for the glow of gold that falls over the altar in the 
rear from stained glass windows. We stand at the 
circular marble balustrade and look down into the 
open crypt where, guarded by statues of victory and 
by veteran flags, stands the colossal sarcophagus of 
shining red granite, that has been gazed upon, I sup- 
pose, by more people, and with more conflicting emo- 
tions than any other tomb in the western world. Men 
used to look at it with plaudits or with curses. Now 
they quietly express an admiration of the man's abil- 
ities, but not of the man himself. 

Will it be a climax, then, or the opposite if from 
Bonaparte we turn to Mr. Eiffel and his tower? (17), 
for here it is, in plain sight and challenging us to a 
climb. Indeed, a structure touching close to a thou- 
sand feet must be in sight from every part of the city. 
From its pictures you would suppose that you could 
never look at it with the least admiration, it is so evi- 
dently constructed on the straddling plan of bracing 
itself for the worst. But when you find yourself 
looking out for it as you do for the North Star, ad- 
justing your whereabouts from it, comparing the great 
towers of the city with it in height, you see your re- 
spect for it is increasing. When you have once been 
to the summit, as we are going this afternoon, you 
cease to speak slightingly of it ; and when, some dewy 
morning, looking away through the city streets for 
blue distances, you espy it flung up into the sky like 
a spider's web, but straight and steadfast as the stone 
tower of St. Jacques, you conclude that it has elements 
of beauty in it, and that you will give it a little place 
in your heart. A big place, you may think, when you 
learn that those four legs of iron stretch out over a 
surface of two and a half acres. We are going to the 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



top of the highest tower on earth — 984 feet, to be ac- 
curate. The Metropolitan building in New York 
stands next at 700 feet, then Washington Monu- 
ment, 555 feet ; after these the Mole of Turin, Cologne 
Cathedral, and the rest. I can remember when the 
Great Pyramid carried off the palm ; but now behold 
us ancients left behind ! Venerable Cheops is at least 
the eighth in the race at present. Never mind, friend 
Cheops, a sound understanding counts for much in 
this world, and in that you'll not find a rival. 

We take a little sliding car up one of these slanting 
legs. It is arranged, like all funicular carriages, to 
have level seats, even if it does run on a steep up- 
grade; and by a pleasant ride we find ourselves in a 
few minutes at the first platform, which is as large as 
a small hotel and has shops, photograph galleries and 
the like scattered around it. Here we are at a level 
with church towers and can look down into the courts 
of all the houses. At the next platform we are in a 
large, glass-covered hall, and as we peep down from 
it we think Paris a great plain of house roofs and 
trees, with hills around ; we also have a lovely view of 
that most sinuous of rivers, the Seine, as it winds into 
the city and out again. Next we are invited into a 
hall that will hold some forty people, and find that it 
has begun to ascend. There are glass walls all around 
us, through which we see new hills rising on the hori- 
zon, and a barometer at one side in which the index 
finger is noticeably dropping. We begin to wonder 
whether those four legs stand firm, and remember 
with pleasure the thirty or forty feet of cement in 
which each one is sunk, and give thanks that they 
straddle. Here is another great room coming down 
beside us, and another forty people who want to 
change places with us ; so we play "stage coach" 
through some sliding doors, the other forty go on 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



down, and we continue to rise. That index finger is 
dropping faster than we ever expected to see it ; new 
horizons are in sight; this can be equalled by nothing 
but a twentieth century balloon. And now we have 
arrived, we step out into a broad corridor enclosed 
with glass, which is really a huge room almost sixty 
feet square, the elevator we have just stepped out of 
being its core. Along the frame above the great win- 
dows are outlines of the horizons seen beneath, and, 
blessed be Paris ! the names of every hill and village 
and steeple top. For miles and miles we look over 
the entourage of the city with such interest we quite 
forget to think of elevation, and hardly need the coun- 
ter irritant of some delicious wafflettes hot from a 
charcoal furnace, to keep our senses calm. After fif- 
teen minutes enjoyment we take the return elevator 
down, join the minority of the timid who have waited 
for us in the park under the legs of our colossus, and 
for all the rest of the day we try not to be proud, and 
not to tell every person we meet, with our very first 
breath, that we have just come down from the Eiffel 
Tower. But our endeavors are vain ; we are proud, 
and we do tell every one we meet, and make the story 
as long as their patience will allow. This last I have 
done with you. But as for telling you with my first 
breath — no, indeed, beloved. I kept the best for the 
last. So adieu for to-night, and dream of widening 
horizons. 

M. 



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EIGHT WEEKS 



XXV— PARIS. 

Paris, Friday Noon, July 23. 

Dearly beloved: 

Have I told you that we are lodging in an 
old convent? This is our first experience of 
what I suppose we shall find not uncommon 
on this continent, the natural result of the seculariza- 
tion of such a lot of church property. It must be a 
strange experience to be suddenly shifted from state 
support to no support at all outside one's own parish ; 
but at least the church buildings continue in use. As 
the state seized them, it must keep them in repair. 
The church refuses to hire them. The state knows 
that no one would suffer more than itself from a clos- 
ing of houses of worship ; therefore it leaves the doors 
open in a compulsory truce, and the church goes in 
and out in silent protest. Convents lend themselves 
pretty well to secular uses ; the former chapel, at one 
side of ours, has been turned into a law school; a 
similar structure at the other side is rented to a lodge ; 
the central part is hotel, with the pretty cloisters as 
garden annex to the dining hall. I dare say they had 
to throw two cells together in making the present com- 
fortable bedrooms, and also put in an "ascenseur ;" 
but it is all very pretty and convenient, and we hope 
that the former monks have found work and homes 
to their liking. Great protests are made by the liberal 
party in Catholic countries against an army of useless 
ecclesiastics and friars, so long supported by the 

195 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



state ; and it certainly does seem to us, who have never 
had such an element in our society, that the days of 
monastic usefulness are mostly gone by. But the 
question forces itself upon us when we meet soldiers 
in squads about the streets, not in one city but in 
many — what about the support of this army? Is it 
earning its livelihood by any useful thing it is doing? 
That is a question beyond non-experts like myself; 
but it sets us all to thinking. 

One can't help having impressions, even after a 
sojourn of only three days ; and to me it seems that, 
from the standpoint of a city of delights, Paris misses 
her sovereigns. So long as there was a cultured, lux- 
urious ruler resident in the capital, he planned boule- 
vards and parks for the ostensible good of all, but 
according to his own tastes and desires, and taxed 
the people to pay for them. The city was, in its best 
parts, an expression of the aesthetic judgment of well- 
informed minds. Palace grounds and city parks must 
be so fresh and lovely that the queen and her ladies 
will forget the poverty of the faubourgs and not trou- 
ble their soft hearts with the complaints of the popu- 
lace. Now France is a republic, the people have a 
word to say as to how much money shall go into new 
avenues and the watering of the streets. If they 
decide that education and business demand more of 
the city's income, and certain pleasure places less, so 
it must be. Worse than this — I speak from the stand- 
point of the pleasure seeker — the whale of France is 
a republic, and the provinces demand a reasonable 
share in the general welfare. Paris may no longer be 
a residence for the delight of the few, and she gives 
us no impression of a pleasure city. Business is rush- 
ing night and day; the noise of careering autobuses 
and trams is equalled only by the innumerable auto- 
mobiles that carry on private traffic or vie with the 

196 



EIGHT WEEKS 



cabmen in hurrying the busy world from one scene 
of activity to another. Shops seem to us more bent 
on disposing of second-rate wares than on setting a 
standard for the mercantile world. The city seems 
intent on getting a living or on making fortunes, and 
largely oblivious of its statues and arches, its towers 
and bridges, its avenues of trees, set with admiring 
pride by the powers of fifty years ago. It irks us to 
have to dodge the noisy crowd as one would do in 
New York, and to see clouds of dust blow past the 
fountains and obelisk of the Place de la Concorde. 
We feel that we miss a certain elegant atmosphere 
that royalty carries in its train, and that Paris is wres- 
tling with the same problems in her somewhat faded 
splendor that we are facing in our undeveloped 
youth. 

But when we step inside the Louvre everything is 
as it should be. There stands the Venus de Milo, 
queening it at the end of her corridor of marbles just 
as she does in my dreams, when I find myself in 
Paris and have time only to rush in and take one look. 
There is pretty Diana and her stag, still looking out 
for Endymion ; there the Borghese athlete, giving the 
tremendous thrust that has not yet tired his muscles 
of stone ; there stands the Winged Victory of Samoth- 
race upon her ship's prow, the breeze still blow- 
ing her marble draperies to left and right. Who 
cares where her missing head has gone ? Those wings 
will carry her all right to whatever vessel she cares 
to favor with her auspicious presence. And upstairs 
there are all those galleries of paintings, through 
which My Lady in Green has promised to conduct 
us. This is really our first opportunity to study gal- 
leries of art ; you remember how we only took them 
on the fly in London ; so stand prepared to be caught 
by a lecture or two before you leave. 

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My next general impression is of the people — that 
they give one no sense of taking life lightly, as the 
traditional Frenchman does — first a passion and then 
a smile ; but of being bent on practical business, push- 
ing it further than the comfortable thrift that has 
long been theirs. Also, they seem to have lost a good 
deal of the pretty, polite ways that used to make them 
a pattern to the nations. Perhaps it is only that the 
rest of the world has grown more courteous ; perhaps 
we feel the influence of the busy hotel region of the 
North Side instead of the more cozy Latin Quarter; 
but for some reason we do not meet the affable greet- 
ings, the appearance of real interest in our welfare, 
that used to accompany the "bon jour, madame," "au 
revoir, monsieur" of high and low a couple of dec- 
ades ago. 

Third, the dumb creatures. It has been customary 
to say that Paris is abusive of its animals. An indig- 
nant lover of horses once said to us, after a few 
weeks' sojourn here : "If I were to stay in this place 
long I'd either start a Society for the Prevention of 
Cruelty to Animals, or else I'd go in for money and 
set up a whip factory." Some of our party have come 
with this idea so firmly fixed in their minds that they 
decline to ride in cabs ; but I confess that I have 
looked in vain for a really ribby horse or a case of 
unkind driving. I think the auto has at least made it 
obligatory to have only well-conditioned horses. 

These general observations follow upon a morning 
of necessary and wearisome shopping, but I don't 
know that I can give you any new points, even upon 
this. Apartment stores are much the same in all 
cities; only that here the "traveler," or whatever they 
call the little book that goes with you from counter to 
counter, has to be settled up in a basement counting 
room that is breathing air from the times of the kings; 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



and we hope that that accounts for the endless time 
required in coming to an understanding. We don't 
like to lay it to stupidity, not being sure on which of 
the two parties concerned the accusation would re- 
bound; but My Lady in Blue can tell a thrilling tale 
of the councils held over her simple traveler's 
cheque — the kind that "is cashed in all the hotels and 
larger stores of Europe," before it was finally accepted 
as money; and the rest of our eight will always re- 
member how neat our several purchases looked, com- 
ing down, each in its pasteboard box, to this counting 
room ; how we fell into consternation as we realized 
that every string had to be cut, every contents com- 
pared with its written slip and recorded ; and into 
stupid despair before those articles were flopped to- 
gether into their final half-dozen boxes and com- 
mitted to the care of the delivery department. How- 
ever, we tried to remember our French manners with 
"bon jour, monsieur," or "bon jour, mademoiselle" to 
all the salesmen we accosted, and "au revoir" on leav- 
ing. Certainly it is a reasonable bit of courtesy, and 
I hope we shall continue it when we get home. 

After lunch we expect to be as good as new, for 
French meals are certainly well cooked and well 
served ; and when any of our party falls to wishing 
for a plain boiled potato at her own fireside, we know 
that it is the fault of too much variety and not of 
poor cooking. 

The afternoon is put down for the picture galleries 
of the Louvre. Most of us have already strolled 
through them, as one might through a diamond mine 
or the Bank of England, with no one to tell us which 
way to look or what acres of canvas to skip. There 
used to be a certain Salon Carre which contained so 
many of the greatest gems that an amateur could 
count himself reasonably well informed if he had 



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become familiar with it. The Salon Carre is still 
there, and still a thing of beauty ; but many of its best 
pieces have been taken away to be put with their fel- 
lows by the same artist. The whole gallery is now 
well classified for study; but that means that in each 
school one must take the mediocre with the best and, 
as likely as not, find oneself exclaiming over some 
single pretty bit that the critics condemn, and that 
perhaps we should condemn in the long run. So we 
have been clamoring to My Lady in Green to give us 
the results of her longer study — as pointers, you un- 
derstand; we are quite too independent to make any 
promises of acquiescence in her judgment, and we 
have received her merciful promise that if any of us 
drop off or drop out, instead of testing her tenets by 
the examples on the walls, she will lay it to the morn- 
ing's shopping and not to the Leonardos and Raphaels 
and herself. We have a general understanding that 
when any one of us begins to expound wisdom the 
rest may listen or not to the number of five or six; 
but at seven we draw the line. One listener may cer- 
tainly be demanded by any lecturer on earth. 

Later. — We found a velvet covered bench in an 
almost deserted room of the gallery, and there My 
Lady delivered sound speech which I am sure you 
will wish to share with us. So I have obtained it 
from her in her own handwriting, and here it is : 

"What is the first thing we should see in a painting? 
Not its subject, nor its drawing, good or bad, but its 
color. You shake your heads, but you are wrong. 
We are so used to getting our ideas of art second 
hand, third hand, one-hundredth hand, through en- 
gravings, wood cuts, photogravures, that we moderns, 
especially we Americans, have to shake ourselves and 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



cuff ourselves out of our school-room and family- 
Bible idea that the only use of a picture is to tell a 
story. Few of us — more's the pity — have our artistic 
sense so cultivated that a painting gives us pleasure 
as a sunset does, simply from its color. Train your- 
self, then, to see, to feel the color. Are the tints har- 
monious? Do they reinforce one another? Do they 
make one consistent whole ? Notice the scale of color ; 
it may be low and subdued, or high and flaring. Each 
is good in its way, and to be prized. Some of you 
have just come from the Rubens Room with the em- 
phatic announcement that you are never going there 
again; but you are wrong, and if you keep up the 
study of painting for a number of weeks in a number 
of galleries, you will gradually find yourselves ready 
to step over to the majority and give Rubens his mede 
of praise for color, however much you dislike his 
treatment of his subjects. The old painters help us 
immensely in this part of our study. How they have 
striven to make their reds red, and their blues pure 
blue ! And when they have succeeded, how we love 
them, despite their faulty drawing! For drawing is 
certainly the second requisite of your picture — to rep- 
resent objects in their correct shapes and their proper 
perspective — as they appear to the eye. A German 
critic advises every one to take a few lessons in 
drawing, because only after you have attempted to 
draw — let us say the human hand — yourself, can you 
appreciate the perfect drawing of the thousands of 
hands in these thousands of pictures. In the Cimabue 
and Giotto Hall you can trace the toilsome process 
through which bare drawing reached the perfection 
which made the great pictures possible. 

"And with the drawing comes the modeling — the 
rounding of limbs and figure. We have all seen rude 
portraits where the features were correct and the 

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likeness unmistakable, but the whole face lay fiat on 
the canvas. What cunning work of light and shade 
to bring this face into bold relief and make it stand 
out from its background ! 

"Next, to group the figures so that they shall form 
one well-balanced composition, where each one helps 
the other, and the 'line' of the whole is rich and pleas- 
ing. Leonardo, with his perfect drawing and sculp- 
ture-like modeling, never attained to grace and rich- 
ness of 'line.' 

"But he could give an atmosphere — which I should 
put next — where little breezes quiver through the 
foliage and cool breaths come from the low dis- 
tances. In Paul Veronese's big canvas of the Salon 
Carre, what an atmosphere, from the landscape in the 
distance to the little puff of orris-root which you are 
sure you smell as the waiters brush past the gorgeous 
women at the feast! 

"To these add texture and mobility; and when you 
can see and feel all this, then let your picture tell its 
story; and if it is a great picture it will be a great 
story, dramatically told, with a past, a present, and a 
future. Look at Raphael's St. Michael and the 
Dragon. The present moment — and how the monster 
is crushed and flattened to the ground before the foot 
or the spear of the radiant archangel has even touched 
him ! But isn't all the past of this ugly dragon in 
your mind, and the future of a blessed world deliv- 
ered from his tyranny? Aren't you glad? There is 
the personal appeal. Don't you wish you could do the 
like? — the personal impulse. 

"Is all this too much to look for in any one picture ? 
Little by little one comes to know the great artists by 
sight, and we love them for what they give us, excus- 
ing deficiencies in one direction, and looking for excel- 
lencies in another. No one would damn Fra Angelico 

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because he could not draw — nor even Rubens because 
he could. Let us be humble, and in this great gallery 
let us look for color, drawing, modeling, composition, 
line, atmosphere, texture, mobility, the dramatic story, 
the personal appeal, the personal impulse. 

"My Lady of the Veil suggests that we have 
omitted entirely the use and pleasure of the historical 
study of painting, as we can carry it on in these care- 
fully arranged galleries. Well, history is her element 
— her native breath, and inasfar as our ignorance 
permits, we envy her the 'content' which she puts into 
Thirteenth Century, Quatrocento, Renaissance. To 
most of us our historical periods divide themselves into 
Old, Very Old, Not So Old, Modern. If we ever 
attain to greater precision we shall be glad and 
thankful." 

And after this we scattered at our will among the 
great masters, sat in judgment a la St. Louis, and 
proudly and happily agreed that we had had a great 
feast of good things. 

Will you end the day with us in a rapid trip to 
Notre Dame and a climb to its outer gallery? 

We find that the study given to Amiens and Beau- 
vais helps us here. We flatter ourselves that we can 
handle a great facade — what arrogance ! — somewhat to 
our own satisfaction ; and the satisfaction of one per- 
son is a thing not to be despised. We say to our- 
selves, "three portals and three stories, besides the 
towers, and the great rose in the middle" ; that helps 
us to reconstruct it in our memories and divides it 
into convenient sections for study in detail. You 
know some people can turn off work just by entering 
the parts in a list and marking them off when accom- 
plished. Try it some day with a mass of stuff that 
looks invincible. In the same way, when the happy 

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day comes in which I have time, 1 shall just divide 
this facade into nine or eleven parts and study them 
one by one, with the hope of some day knowing the 
great gray face as I know the face of a friend. But 
now the sun is getting low, and, gathering up our 
last remaining muscle, we go up, up these winding 
stairs to the balcony between the towers. Our Star 
Lady has gone away up to the summit to see the 




r£X 



Trc\n tlitCiallcrij et Afotve-D'avne- 



whole city at her feet, the Seine winding afar toward 
distant hills, and, best of all, shining beneath those 
thirty bridges we have recently passed under. But 
we'll stay here, if you please, near the big bells, and 
commune with the dumb creatures that have been 
looking down from here for all these centuries. Who 
put them here and why? Some are gargoyles, and 
carry off waste water through their gasping, gagging 
throats; but others are beasts, or birds, or a cross 

204 



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between the two, of such genus as the eye of man 
has never seen ; and here they have perched at the 
will of some humorous architect, just to prevent holy 
church from cutting itself loose from human mirth. 
One of them scans the horizon for the next change 
in government, or the next good news from a dis- 
tant colony. Another meditates grimly over the 
fallen empires of the past. Here are two that have 
their lean arms braced to hurl themselves down upon 
some unsuspecting offenders below; here is one who 
munches the same sweet stone fruits that were put 
into his patient jaws five centuries ago; and beside 




EIGHT LANDS IN 



him his brother is yawning in absolute ennui. This 
good-natured fellow — we'll call him an eagle — is wait- 
ing to carry some other blessed eight a-touring 
through Europe; and this last — why, he is just that 
Adirondack guide that figures in one of the stories 
wherewith My Lady of the Veil beguiles our railway 
journeys when endurance of heat and coal smoke reach 
a limit : "And what do you do up here in the woods 
when you're all snowed in in winter?" "Well, some 
days I set and think, and some days I just set." 

Now, just as you turn from the beasts to interview 
the photograph man at the top of the stairs, take 
another look back across the roof and over all the 
pinnacles that crown its buttresses. Do you see things 
of heaven as well as of earth? Behold this angel 
with folded wings — yonder saint with harp in hand ; 
and here a whole procession of faithful men and 
women, artisans, sages, friars, and nuns going up, 
up the pillars that are a part of the pinnacle of this 
tower; all these as living stones wrought into the one 
great temple, and the setting sun turning them into 
gold. We'll think over this golden lesson as we go 
to bed. 

The "grand bourdon," or big bumbler of Notre 
Dame, has waited for us to leave before sounding 
forth his big speech. I hope we shall hear his voice 
among the noises of the street, as we heard the Big 
Ben and the Big Paul in London and Bell Harry in 
Canterbury. It must be a great thing to feel that 
one's words carry the weight of sixteen tons. 

Good-night, with a sound of bells. 

M. 



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XXVI— LAST DAY IN PARIS. 

JiXoAtoAlactMAB- del 

The last week-day in this city, and still much land 
remains to be possessed. Fortunately we are eight, 
and what we cannot do as a unit we may accomplish 
in quarter sections. My Lady Practical knows that 
she wants to see the Gobelins that have been manufac- 
turing tapestries since the days of Louis XIV., and I 
think My Lady Bright Eyes should go with her, to 
be sure that no good points are left unseen. Even as 
far back as Francis I. this industry was a specialty of 
the city; but after the brothers Gobelin erected their 
dyeing, weaving and furnishing establishment, it be- 
came the leading manufactory of these costly fabrics, 
which were reserved for state uses and for gifts to 
monarchs. The soft effect of atmosphere given by 
the texture, as it is to a certain extent by some twills 
of canvas ; the permanent color of well-dyed wools, 
and the freedom from the peril of varnishes, have 
always made tapestries a favorite kind of decoration. 
The ease of changing them from one place to another, 
and their adaptability to large surfaces with no need 

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of cumbersome frames, also gives them great value; 
and when one begins to make a study of the gentle- 
men and ladies who walk about in woolly attire, the 
trees that spread their woolly leaves, and the moun- 
tains that lie in woolly glooms of shade, one becomes 
fascinated with these successes. They are like velvet 
rather than wool, and at a little distance, as in the 
row of gorgeous portraits in the Gallery of Apollo the 
most elegant gallery of the Louvre, they so perfectly 
represent the best of paintings as to make one doubt 
one's own eyes and the authority of the guidebook. 
So My Lady Practical is urged to visit the Gobelins, 
with her valuable notebook in hand, and see the men 
and women at work at their hand looms, their patterns 
stretched behind them, the bit for the day traced in 
black crayon on the threads of the warp — little mir- 
rors in their hands to examine their finished work, as 
its wrong side is toward them, and before them bas- 
kets of bobbins selected from the thousands and thou- 
sands of hues and shades at their disposal. A good 
eye, good judgment and artistic sense are required, 
but originality would be disastrous, as the most ac- 
curate cartoons from celebrated paintings are the pat- 
terns. If our ladies display some wooden bobbins 
about five inches long and wound with a variety of 
colors, we shall know that they have found the right 
place and have paid an acceptable fee. 

My Lady in Blue and My Lady Persistent cannot 
leave Paris without driving in the "Bois," where pleas- 
ure and fashion throng on sunny afternoons. Horses 
are their choice, and they have a mingled vision of 
elegant turnouts, brooks and lakes, prancing steeds 
and grand cascades, chic costumes, velvet green- 
swards, Swiss chalets, and perhaps a steeple chase. 
Their hearts are, however, divided between this and 
the Jardin des Plantes, where they could glut their 

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botanic appetites and at the same time hear lions roar 
and serpents hiss, monkeys chatter and paraquets 
scream, all to the most delightful surroundings. Per- 
haps they can accomplish both if a threatening rain 
holds off; who knows? 

My Lady of the Veil is in two minds between shops 
and St. Denis ; but having years ago visited this beau- 
tiful cathedral, with its Romanesque fagade, a few 
miles north of the city, having explored its marble 
tombs and bronze effigies with their thrilling vicissi- 
tudes under changing governments — now in honor 
under the kings, now thrown out with their scattered 
bones by revolutionists — I presume she will decide to 
consider the less agitating theme of laces, gloves and 
blouse waists. My Lady of the Star knows that she 
must have another half day in the Louvre, and there 
she is right. Why, we have not even glanced at the 
statues of the Renaissance — Michael Angelo's slaves, 
Cellini's nymph, and all the starred bronzes ; nor have 
we so much as set foot in those rarest of all rooms, 
where the "immortal guard" of Darius are set up in 
terra-cotta figures thirteen feet high all along the 
wall, just as they stood in the gigantic throne room of 
Artaxerxes to add splendor to the palace of the 
oriental despots. We must none of us by any chance 
fail to see these giants, and the bases and capitals of 
the actual pillars that upheld the palace roof. Our 
imaginations, now under virtuous process of devel- 
opment, will receive a grand impulse thereby. I think 
I will attach my chariot to the same star to-day; the 
galleries of statuary call me urgently, and I wonder 
why. Partly, perhaps, because of their cool quietness 
after the more vociferous appeals of the picture gal- 
leries. The singleness of color and simplicity of 
theme rests one's eyes ; there are not so many ele- 
ments to take into account as My Lady in Green 

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found in her blazing canvases. Partly, too, because 
one can walk all around them and view them as they 
are without straining neck and eyes and trying to 
guess at half-told stories in the shadows. But the 
essential elements of the charm of sculpture lie deeper 
and are subtler than this. The first and most obvious 
seems to me the turning of stone into flesh and into 
the garments to adorn it. Here is granite, sandstone, 
marble, fit to face the storms of centuries, and yet for 
us it is soft as a child's cheek, tense as an athlete's 
muscles, waving in the wind, drooping in heavy folds, 
revealing a human form through a gossamer veil, 
moving on swift feet, soaring on heavenly wings. 
Doesn't the wonder of it alone pay you for an hour's 
observation? And close akin to this, but still more 
valuable, is the putting of character into stone. 
Every one of these statues is a person. To de- 
stroy one of them would seem a kind of murder. 
For ages this athlete has roused the passersby to a 
better use of their physical powers; the Venus has 
said to all good women, "Be strong, be beautiful, and 
forget yourself in some good deed that comes to your 
hand" ; the victory even now, headless and armless, 
speaks courage and hope and joy. All of nature, to 
be sure, is beautiful under the sculptor's hands — the 
olive wreath, the climbing ivy, lions and eagles and 
fabulous creatures without names ; but a gallery en- 
tirely of these would scarcely bring thousands across 
a continent to see them. It is when they are adjuncts 
to the human element, or else have really human char- 
acteristics, as in the lions of Thorwaldsen and Barye 
and Landseer, that they become great works of art. 

Of course, our sculptured men and women and gods 
give us a dramatic element besides, as do the people 
in pictures; you can read their past and guess their 
future, and they often give you, besides, a glimpse 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



into the artist's own soul, or into the soul of his time 
and nation. What a revelation of the peoples of the 
past is made for us in their statuary! And what a 
record we are handing down to our followers ! At 
least I thought so when I began that sentence; but, 
running over in my mind the modern sculpture in the 
Luxembourg, I bethink me that dress is represented 
in it mostly by its absence, so that only the dressing 
of our hair can carry any information down to pos- 
terity. But don't you think they will guess from the 
marbles that are prized enough to survive, whether 
we have had ideals above the sensuous ; whether, as 
a type, we have kept up the standard of the divine- 
human ; and whether, perhaps, we have added some 
new ideas about the brotherhood of man, the hope of 
an endless life? I think they certainly will, and I am 
glad, by comparing ancient and modern sculpture, to 
persuade myself of the fact. 

After which homily those of you who like statuary 
will, I hope, like it none the less ; and those who don't 
will have listened patiently and will now leave us sit- 
ting before our Venus, and Apollo, or Diana, and 
great god Tiber, our sportive fauns and queenly cary- 
atids, and will go to the big store across the way 
to buy gloves. There is a charming bit of ambiguity 
in a woman's speech when she says, I have spent the 
morning at the Louvre; for she may be thinking of 
the "Musee" and she may be thinking of the "Ma- 
gazin." 

And what do you suppose we have finally done 
about the palaces, Versailles and Fontainebleau ? Do 
you know a pretty French ballad about an old man 
who, at the end of his life, was still singing the refrain 
of his youth, "I never have seen Carcassonne" ? And 
did you ever read Wordsworth's wise and lovely poem 
of ''Yarrow Unvisited"? Well, a good many people 

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take Sunday for Versailles ; but we were all Puritan- 
bred, and still find Sabbath rest a divine ordinance; 
and Monday we leave for Brussels. Perhaps both pal- 
aces will have to put up without seeing us this time. 

Just look over your map of the city now, and see 
if you don't think we have done pretty well by it, and 
have a right to say good-night tired and happy. 

M. 

Sunday, July 25. 

We looked over last evening the Sunday resources 
of this place. Setting aside Versailles, which we had 
already declined, there was next Notre Dame and 
the Madeleine, in the latter of which the finest church 
music of the city is usually to be heard ; and when 
the Church of Rome lifts up her voice, be it with 
trained choir and organ or with the responses of the 
people in vesper-song, it is music worthy of the 
courts of the Lord's house. How a vested choir of 
monks and canons can furnish a matchless soprano 
among their leading parts, is to us listeners a mystery. 
But, watching as their swaying robes brush by us, I 
have been able to discover no woman hidden among 
their surplices. Besides the Madeleine there are at- 
tractions for us in a dozen English places of worship 
— Church of England, Church of Scotland, Wesleyan 
and Baptist, American Chapel and American Episco- 
pal Church; and in every one we shall notice a bit 
of courtesy that accompanies foreign travel; for the 
English clergymen will add to their prayers for the 
royal family petitions for the presidents of France 
and of the United States ; the pastor of the American 
Chapel will reciprocate, and all these English-speaking 
and English-praying churches will pray for one an- 
other and for the country where they are being enter- 
tained. We begin to think over our churches at home 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



and wonder whether we remember foreign rulers in 
our prayers, and especially the rulers whose subjects 
are dwelling among us. 

But with all these calls to the Lord's House, a few 
of us have a Sunday engagement made in our own 
minds long ago, to visit an old friend of ours and 
inspect some work of a high order that he is carrying 
on in Paris. Among the arts that flourish here he 
has selected one that handles a different material from 
any art we have so far seen, and with a different 
product in view. He asks us to give the afternoon 
to his latest achievement, and it turns out to be a kind 
of altar-piece — a thing in three parts, such as we 
have learned to look for in old picture galleries, 
taken away from its original site in the church. But 
this one of our friend is to be viewed in fresh color 
in its own chosen niche, and right where it has grown 
under the skillful hand of the artist. 

The central scene is laid in a tiny evangelical church, 
with neither arches nor frescoes, crucifix or pictured 
saint. Through an open window you see a glimpse 
of Paris streets that are reputable but plain. A con- 
gregation of quiet working people sit on wooden 
benches and listen to a pastor in gown and bands. 
They look at him as though they trusted him; as 
though he had been a father to them and had taught 
them to know the All-Father. He is not an old man, 
but he bears heavy creases on his brow that mock at 
the smile on his lips. A young girl sits at the little 
organ; all the congregation join in the hymns — now 
in quavering trills like an air of an opera, now in 
unison passages like a German choral. Once some 
trustful French words burst forth in a tune that sings 
to us "ceaseless course" and "eternal state." I have 
told you that this is a unique kind of art, and you see 
that it appeals to the ear as well as to the eye. 

213 



EIGHT LAN DS~~IN 



Wing Number One : The long dining room in a 
homely parsonage, a few pictures on the walls ; com- 
fort all around and no splendor. A narrow table oc- 
cupies the entire length, spread with a white cloth, and 
set with plates and knives. At each place is a thick 
slice cut from a French loaf, down the middle are 
pots of jam; at the head of the table is the pastor's 
wife with the helpmeet-face, her big teapot in hand, 
her piles of cups and saucers before her. All around 
are happy young people, seated close on long benches. 
They have flocked in at the pastor's weekly invitation, 
after the morning service. They drink and chat, they 
smile and break bread. Mothers with babies help at 
the serving and stand ready to join the hostess in the 
clearing away at the end. The pastor is pleased to 
have a few visiting strangers at his board, and is not 
at all ashamed of the pretty array he can show them. 

Wing Number Two: The pastor's study overhead. 
An upright piano, where the daughter of the house 
presides. All the young people of the dining room 
seated around. A brief business meeting has just 
been disposed of; the pastor still holds in his hand 
pencil and paper, with records of dates and commit- 
tees for an approaching festival, but all have dropped 
upon their knees, facing toward the centre, not, as our 
Swedenborgian friends advise in a beautiful symbol- 
ism of God the centre of all, but for the social gain 
of being easily heard by one another. And then 
sounds forth the music of this part — prayer after 
prayer in quiet voices of young men and maidens, 
brief and simple, and ever and anon a sweet verse of 
a hymn sung while still on bended knees. The trav- 
elers from afar, growing rich on the art treasures of 
nations and the beauties of nature spread out for them 
by kings, compare their overflowing cup with the sim- 
ple draughts of these Paris poor, and add their pray- 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



ers in a strange tongue for the upbuilding of this 
court of Zion. 

I have showed you this altar piece partly because 
it was unique, and seemed to us a great success ; 
partly because I know that you rejoice, as we do, 
whenever you find in this rushing, business-driven 
Paris, an upward glance, an uplifted voice. In spite 
of secularization and socialism and agnosticism, there's 
a song of praise here and there in the air, and it does 
us good to hear it, in cathedral, or chapel, or pastor's 
home. 

One of our bards has dropped into verse in regard 
to this land. Here is her product : 



PARIS. 

The centuries came down to view 

This far-famed empress of old and new; 

They found her fair; will they find her true? 
Her castled hills are grand to see, 
Her forests and fountains, Arcady, 
Her cities are merry with industry. 
Tuileries glorious, Bastilles grim, 
She builds and she breaks at her sovereign whim; 
Blood in her goblet, but wine at the brim. 
Her golden lilies wilt on the ground; 

She has trampled her honey bees round and round, 
Will she fling off her tricolor, burdensome found) 
But, oh, she's a princess! and ah, she is fairi 
A sobbing child in shining hair; 

And, lot she is counting her beads in prayer. 
Kind centuries, who stand to view 

This wayward empress of old and new, 
Pray, pray with her! God grant her true! 

215 



PART IV— BELGIUM AND HOLLAND. 



XXVII— BRUSSELS POINT. 




Dear friends all: 

I notice by our itinerary that between two 
Sundays we are to visit two countries and, sup- 
posedly, become somewhat familiar with their 
scenery, their cities, their people and their art. This 
being the case, I propose that our great omission in- 
clude this time all useful facts of history and statistics. 
It would be rather interesting to own a list of those 
facts, just so that we might look at it defiantly and 
say : "You have I spurned and discarded. Trouble 
me not with vain reproaches !" In fact, the more I 
think of it the more I pine to make out such a brief 
little list, beginning : "The term Netherlands is often 
used in history to include both Belgium and Holland. 
Flanders and Flemish are the old name and adjective 
belonging to the former of these countries. For a 
long time Holland was a republic, electing its stad- 

219 



EIGHT LAN DS IN 



holder, or governor ; but now both countries are mon- 
archies," etc., etc., down to the little heir apparent to 
the Dutch throne. But I lay a hand upon myself as 
heavy as the gauntlet of the Prince of Orange, and 
restrain my rash desires. When we get home, how- 
ever, we'll thresh this glorious historic ground all over 
again with Motley, de Amicis, and a lot of others to 
help us; and we'll not stop there, but go on to all the 
attractive literature of these countries, especially the 
old poet guilds of Holland with the flowery names, 
and the poetess Tesselschade of the many lovers — 
and the rest. But at present we know only that Bel- 
gium comes first and Holland second ; that Belgium 
is above sea level and Holland below ; that Belgium is 
Catholic and speaks French — Holland Protestant and 
speaks Dutch ; and that Belgium is ruled by a king, 
while Holland rejoices in the "little queen" Wil- 
helmina. 

Our heartstrings are badly torn when one and 
another ask us, "What cities do you visit? Of course, 
you will see the cathedrals of Ghent and Tournai ; 
you'll stop at Louvain for that wonderful old Hotel 
de Ville ; you'll hear the chimes of Bruges ; you'll go 
out to Waterloo, and walk over the battlefield?" No, 
no, no! We are going to Brussels to buy some lace; 
and when we come back from Holland we may stop 
over a train at Antwerp to see the seven-aisled cathe- 
dral and Rubens' Descent from the Cross. You see, 
we have learned that great are the joys of anticipa- 
tion. If fruition comes, it is fourfold as valuable from 
having been familiar beforehand; and if by any un- 
toward event it fails, we have only to tack on a big 
piece of imagination to the data already in our minds, 
and we are all prepared to write down in our diaries 
a full account of our visit. By next year you'll find 
us traveling on paper with the greatest exhilaration. 

220 



EIGHT WEEKS 



Our departure from Paris was animated enough to 
suit the most Gallic of tastes. After arranging for 
early breakfast, plenty of time to reach the train, two 
autocabs to be called for our conveyance, we found 
that the porter and we had two entirely different 
words to describe those useful vehicles — that two one- 
horse cabs were waiting our disposal; that on this 
particular morning of all the year autos were in such 
special demand that only one could be whistled to our 
front door ; that the laundress had failed to bring the 
missing pieces of linen ; that time was flying, and that 
we, too, must fly. That is not a dignified conclusion 
of our visit, thus to be bundled out of the city; but 
bundled and hustled we were, and none too soon. We 
had decided that we would have our suit-cases put 
into the baggage van, as we had sometimes done in 
England; but we had not foreseen the fact that all 
baggage P u t into French vans must be weighed and 
registered ; that one distracted man must do the reg- 
istering for a thousand odd travelers ; that there is a 
great deal more baggage to convey than porters to 
convey it; that French trains are long and usually 
start on time, and that one "personal conductor" can- 
not at the same time secure a porter who does not 
exist, register baggage in a five minutes that has just 
gone by, and open up eight books of circular tickets 
to admit eight anxious women to the platform. 

We made that train, I cannot tell how. We secured 
our compartment. We had those ten pieces of bag- 
gage stowed away over our heads as usual, and we 
were all in our places and in our right minds when 
that train moved out of the station. But our leave- 
taking was of a piece with that of several crowned 
heads I have read of in French history — without great 
ceremony of farewell. 

However, we are safely in Brussels ; we have bought 
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EIGHT LANDS IN 

our little pieces of lace, with as much consideration 
and comparison on our part, and as much courtesy 
on the part of the salesmen and saleswomen as though 
our purchases were to make them rich ; we have seen 
the little bobbins that dangle from the lace cushions 
fly deftly to and fro in the hands of the weavers ; we 
have learned that point lace is really made with a 
point, that is, a needle; and we have given their daily 
amusement to the little women in the dark room who 
work at their pillows and points with the special pur- 
pose of beguiling visitors into becoming purchasers. 
We have admired the bridal veil made for Princess 
So-and-so by so many score of weavers in so many 
months or days — or was it the pattern for the veil? 
That will do just as well ; and, altogether, we feel as 
though we had been in the thick of the fight, and 
might now have thrills when we remember the cus- 
tom-house officers at home. There was a cathedral 
somewhere near the lace places ; but it happened to be 
closed just when we were there, and Ave were quite 
too impecunious after our trade to give a franc for 
admission. And there was a picture gallery ancient, 
and a picture gallery modern, neither of which we 
went near. But the "Gran' Place" where the old 
guild-houses of the Middle Ages stand shoulder to 
shoulder all the way around, beautiful in carving and 
color and gilt, broken into by such splendid edifices 
as the Hotel de Ville and the Maison du Roi, these, 
our conductor declared, we should see, whether we 
would and could or not, and we are glad she laid it 
to our hearts. Also, we took a trolley ride through 
boulevards and parks and palace grounds — for Brus- 
sels, you remember, is called the little Paris — and 
passed the splendid modern Palais de Justice, which 
makes one's heart glad like the Capitol at Washington ; 
and last of all, three of us drove after dark all around 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



the city, which is at present gay with a kind of annual 
Kirmess ; and those three declare that the twinkling 
lights and fireworks of that Kirmess surpassed all the 
other attractions of this cosy city. 

Do you know how I happen to be writing to you 
at four o'clock of the morning? I suppose you may 
thank the Kirmess for that. We all went to bed like 
ordinary Christians at ordinary times ; but like the 
veriest pagans the people of this city square have been 
keeping holiday while we tried to sleep. Just as many 
noises, it seemed to us, and of just the same kind as 
by day — electric lights blazing from restaurants ; music 
playing, cabs and trains rolling by; talking, singing, 
laughing — all as though it was we, perhaps, who had 
made the mistake and gone to bed in the daytime. My 
Lady Practical has done nothing all night but go back 
and forth from her bed to her window and laugh at 
the general jollity; and now that the big dogs of Bel- 
gium are beginning to appear, drawing the milk carts 
for the morning delivery, she can't take her eyes from 
the faithful creatures and their kind masters, with 
whom they exchange many a caress between times. I, 
too, have come to the window to look, and hence am 
finishing my letter to you. My next will be from 
Amsterdam. You who have dogs, just tell them about 
these industrious fellows in Brussels and give them an 
extra pat because they, too, would have been just as 
trustworthy if it had been asked of them. 

Do you think us irreverent to write in our Bible 
text-book to-day, "They rest not day or night" ! We 
hope the words that follow are also true of these good- 
natured people who complacently turn night into day. 

Good morning, and do a little sleeping for me. 

M, 



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XXVIII— THE LAND OF THE DUTCH. 




A-m$le.rd&-7iu 



Dear people: 

After our night of gaiety at Brussels you will 
not be surprised to know that we had a 
pretty sleepy journey to the land of the Dutch. I am 
sure that it must have been interesting all of the way, 
with the green fields of so much made land, the long 
canals and bordering dykes cutting the level land- 
scape into sections, trees in rows against the sky, 
windmills holding their big arms in fantastic gestures 
waiting for a breeze ; cosy homes scattered in the 
fields or gathered in villages, and everywhere kitchen 
gardens and flower gardens which made My Lady 
Practical quite wild with the desire to empty her suit- 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



case of half its necessary articles and fill it up with 
bulbs. But in spite of this pretty picture that my pen 
ought to call up in your minds, we looked with weary 
eyes, and have not a very distinct impression of what 
we saw. You know that much of the country has 
been turned from lakes and marshes into "polders," a 
kind of gigantic sunken gardens or sunken farm lands, 
which are most valuable. To drain uphill instead of 
down has so long been an achievement of the Dutch 
that they almost think of it as Nature's method. In 
the case of these great polders, a lake or swamp is 
drained of its upper waters by means of pumps dis- 
charging into an encircling canal ; then another canal 
is constructed further down, just above the remaining 
lake, and into it this lower water is pumped, and from 
it into canal number one. If even then a lowest lake 
is left, a third canal is made and the process again 
repeated. You would suppose these farm-land bowls 
and their concentric canals would be easily studied 
from the railway ; but, partly, the bowls are large and 
of irregular shape, and, partly the original windmill 
pumps have been replaced by steam machines, so that 
you cannot see those giant creatures at their interest- 
ing work as you could have done some years ago. 
Still, close observation will convince you that much 
of the land you pass lies lower than the railroad, and 
that its beautiful fertility is due to that system of 
encircling waters that makes irrigation always 
available. 

Do you get a general idea of the way in which this 
land holds its own against the sea, and also against 
the delta of the Rhine and Meuse that makes it a 
great fresh-water Venice? First, the biggest dikes 
shut out the sea; and they are made tremendously 
strong and thick, overgrown with long-rooted grasses 
and other plants, and at the mouths of rivers doubly 

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faced with stone embankments. Next, the middling- 
sized dikes, but they also pretty big and strong and 
stone-faced, shut the rivers into their channels ; and 
at high tide they must be mighty enough to hold 
the up-piled, set-back waters while the double or triple 
seagates are shut, until low tide allows the current 
again to flow outward. Last, the little dikes shut in 
the smaller channels in the same way; and all these, 
with their enclosed canals, serve as means of com- 
munication and as boundaries. You might think that 
you would tire of their geometric primness ; but put 
a row of trees upon them, a lot of boats trailing along 
their waters by man power or steam power, a farm- 
house and windmill here and there, and everywhere 
the black and white Holland cows on the greenest of 
pastures — and you'll have a landscape for a Van de 
Velde or a Potter, be the sky blue or gray. 

We passed through half a dozen cities, too, that 
we'll tell you about on our return ; for this is, I 
think, the only point in our whole summer's journey 
in which we go over the same road twice. 

At this writing we have had a day and a half in 
Amsterdam, and are just beginning to find out its 
resources. Imagine a series of parallel canals, called 
Grachten, wound in a semi-circle with its base at the 
north on the harbor called Het Y — pronounce it / — 
every canal forming the middle of a tree-shaded street 
with business or residence blocks — and you have the 
general plan of the city. One of these canals seems 
to replace an old wall, being of a fine zigzag pattern. 
Up and down the centre of this half circle runs the 
broad avenue known as the Dam, having been a canal 
itself until of recent years ; and on it are situated 
houses of the ancient aristocracy, with steep gables to 
the street and an air of veterans leaning on each other 
for support. The canals are only a few feet deep, 

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and act as sewers as well as highways, being washed 
out by a current of salt water let in from the North 
Sea Canal. Between the canal-lined streets, and cross- 
ing them, are all the other plain streets that go to 
make up a city of half a million. Little parks are put 
in here and there, named from favorite artists and 
stadholders — we are on the Rembrandtsplein ; larger 
parks and zoological and botanical gardens are to be 
found in the suburbs ; and exactly at the southern ex- 
tremity of the semi-circle is the great Ryksmuseum 
(Royal Museum) of brick and stone, where we are 
spending much of our time. Half a dozen other col- 
lections of arts fine and industrial, each a treasure in 
its way, call loudly to us, but must receive the cold 
shoulder. We are just steeping ourselves so far as 
possible in the Dutch — Dutch art, Dutch language, 
Dutch people and customs. It is a delight to catch 
sight of the shining gold head-dresses of the women, 
a kind of half-helmet, covered with long-tabbed lace 
caps, and ending at the temples in coils of gold wire 
like tight-twisted ramshorns. This favorite headgear 
is not always accompanied by the short, full skirt of 
the peasant, but is oftener found with a modern dress 
and surmounted by a modern hat or bonnet. It is a 
pleasure to listen to the queer mixture of English and 
German sounds that make up the Dutch language — 
just far enough off from each of these to seem like a 
travesty used in sport — and no less a pleasure to study 
out street signs and advertisements. Here is a warn- 
ing to passengers riding on the second story of a 
tram that runs under an avenue of trees : Let op de 
langs de trambaan staande Boomen. (Look out for 
the trees standing along the tramway.) 

We like to watch the thrifty maids scouring their 
doorsteps, and to peep at the little slanting mirrors in 
upper story windows by which Holland dames may 

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watch the life of the street without taking part in it. 
Also, we like Dutch cooking. The Edam cheeses, 
fresh and soft from their spotless factories in little 
country towns, appear in slices on our breakfast table 
and with our desserts ; and some genuine simple po- 
tatoes, unspoiled by stews or fries, delight our hearts ; 
otherwise the cuisine is much like that we have left. 
Guests are expected to patronize the hotel wines — O 
shades of the W. C. T. U. ! — or else pay extra for 
meals ! But our gentlemanly head waiter explained 
that this stipulation on the menu, to the interpretation 
of which we had been applying our ingenuity in vain, 
applies to the restaurant, and not to guests in the 
house. By geen gebruik maken van consumptie 
wordt het diner mit 15 cts verhoogd. (By no use 
making of consumptions this dinner by 15c is height- 
ened.) "You know you in England and America call 
what you eat your consumings; but with us our con- 
sumings are our drink." The poor man is driven 
almost wild by inconsiderate tourist parties who cannot 
understand that when a city is crowded for a pro- 
vincial congress, guests who come unannounced must 
put up with three in a room; and he finds much con- 
solation in some words of appreciation that we have 
let drop. Our sympathies are more and more drawn 
out for the ordinary hotel waiter. The maids have 
enough hard work, but the waiters have still longer 
hours, no outdoor recreation, no Sundays, and few 
vacations. No wonder they look anemic. The only 
surprising thing is that they are so uniformly polite, 
and even accommodating. 

And do you begin to think that you will never see 
the Ryksmuseum? Here it is at last, and admission 
free, as should be the case in every great collection; 
for what an education such an institution is to the 
people of the land, as well as to travelers ! When will 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



the time come for our own cities, the little as well 
as the big, to found their permanent collections of 
historic and artistic value? Over here, every little 
place has its museum, which educates its people in the 
records of its past and makes them proud of its 
achievements. It is only because we, the favored 
eight, have the plum-cake of all the big cities to choose 
from, that we pay little attention to these smaller 
treats. Here is what we find in the Ryksmuseum, 
conveniently arranged for study, with every article 
distinctly labelel : ( I ) A large military and naval 
collection, well housed in a glass-covered court, and 
containing among other things models of ships, dock- 
yards and locks; (2) A suite of ten rooms, illus- 
trating in their construction, decoration, and in what 
they contain, the development of church architecture 
during a thousand years, beginning with the times of 
Charlemagne; (3) A suite of twice as many rooms 
devoted to the progress of industrial art in Holland, 
from carved chimney pieces and tapestries to silver 
plate and cut glass; (4) A collection of porcelains 
and lacquer from home and abroad; (5) Cabinets of 
engraving, halls of modern painting; (6) Another 
glass-covered court filled with plaster casts of Dutch 
carvings from churches, and (7) A whole three- 
storied library. All these before we have climbed the 
stairs to the great picture gallery for which we have 
come, or gone down into the basement for the collec- 
tion of Holland costumes. This last is something ab- 
solutely unique. Rooms and rooms are lined with 
glass cases in which stand men, women and children 
in wax, dressed in the provincial costumes of the past 
centuries, and of the present, too; for many of these 
have not changed — they have merely been dropped for 
the dress of the cities. This clothing is all real dress 
that has been worn by somebody, and represents every 

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rank and condition, from the farmer in his ploughing 
suit to the princess dressed as a bride. Such bonnets, 
such lace caps, such a variety of helmets, such bodices 
and chemisettes, such aprons and kerchiefs, such shoes 
and gloves and mits, such petticoats, long and short, 
full and scant ; such colors, gay and sober, such natural 
attitudes, such marked physiognomies in these hun- 
dreds of silent people ! It is almost uncanny. 

And now from the absolutely realistic we go up the 
broad stairs to the second story to see what Holland's 
great painters have done. We enter a broad hall 
called the Gallery of Honor, from which alcoves open 
on either side, and in these we catch glimpses between 
the velvet portieres of a grand display of masterpieces ; 
but right ahead of us, at the end of the gallery, glows 
the masterpiece of them all, Rembrandt's Night 
Watch, cunningly lighted by some electric coil so as to 
be always at its best, and drawing the eye of every 
person who returns to the gallery from studying the 
works in the alcoves. It's a great thing to walk 
through such a gallery of honor, artists in honor on 
every side, and the honored master of them all at the 
end, to whose work your eye instantly turns to bask 
anew in its light and make new explorations in its 
shadows. You remember the theme, do you not? A 
company of archers issuing from their dark hall into 
the light of day, ready for some excursion or ad- 
venture. In the hands of some artists it would have 
been nothing but a group of portraits. Under Rem- 
brandt's master brush it has become one of the great 
pictures of the world. 

Besides the Gallery of Honor and its alcoves there 
are two long series of rooms, about forty in all, where 
we do not find any strict classification like that in 
Paris. Some rooms are arranged by centuries, some 
by subjects, some by collections presented by indi- 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



viduals, so that to a real student the mixture is exas- 
perating. For us, traveling rapidly, it is perhaps just 
as well to come unexpectedly upon a Rembrandt until 
we learn to know his strong lights and speaking shad- 
ows ; or upon a Ruysdael with his woods, a Jan Steen 
with his jolly roisterers, an Everdingen with his pines ; 
but for real study this arrangement, or lack of it, is 
annoying. 

Our own object is, not to become familiar with all 
these Dutchmen, but to get sufficiently in touch with 
their particular genius to appreciate its good points 
and distinguish it from the genius of other nationali- 
ties. At once we observe that we are in a collection 
of portrait groups. Even where we say at first, "Land- 
scape, Sea view, Still-life, Tavern scenes," we notice 
that these are copies of different phases of the coun- 
try's life, not ideal groups of sacred or historical char- 
acters, nor ideal landscapes. The Dutch have always 
liked to see themselves, I might add, as others see 
them, for they are not afraid of that kind of a view. 
They think that, on the whole, they are worthy to be 
looked at, and they don't mind giving the world a 
permanent record of themselves. I don't suppose 
that, as a nation, they ever sat down and formulated 
this statement, still less handed it to your humble 
critic ; but so the matter strikes us as we look around. 
When art was here at its best in the seventeenth cen- 
tury, under Rembrandt, Van der Heist, Frans Hals, 
the guilds and corporations were leading powers in 
state and society, and every guild wanted a portrait 
group of its members, every charitable corporation a 
group of its regents. Whether these set the fashion, 
or only expressed a taste already inherent in the race, 
sure it is that Teniers and Terburg and Jan Steen did 
for family and village life what the others were doing 
for public associations. Accuracy of portraiture, 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



carefulness in detail, and good coloring are to be 
found in all their works ; but when a picture adds to 
this richness of line, depths in light and shadow, 
centralization of interest and movement, then you 
have something great that you are never tired of 
looking at. And see how the artists worked toward 
this result! Here is a group that is just a collection 
of excellent portraits, with all the heads in a row; 
another with much better grouping, but still no cen- 
tral point to fix your attention ; another in which the 
study of the flesh is so perfect, and the character, too 
— for each hand expresses in little what the face gives 
more fully — that you cannot look at the whole for the 
interest of every part. But when you come to Rem- 
brandt, there you have the whole thing — the perfect 
portraiture, the perfect flesh, the noble line, the grand 
color, the strength of action, and the unity of all 
about some central point of interest. Look at this 
simple group of the five syndics of the clothmakers 
— every one a man of worth, but all alike in waving 
hair, black hats, black gowns and broad collars. How 
is one to make a picture of them that shall be other 
than a gloomy mass of black? And there is their at- 
tendant or factotum besides, somebody's son-in-law, 
perhaps, or possible future syndic, that must add his 
blackness to the bunch. Well, at least his hat will be 
off — so much black gone — and the treasurer can 
bring his money in a leather bag, and Mynheer So- 
and-So shall turn the leaves of the big account book; 
yes, the carved wainscoting will not be a bad back- 
ground, toning up very well from those chestnut 
locks; and two of the syndics are fortunately turning 
gray. But see ! Just as the artist decides upon the 
final pose a ray of sunlight streams upon the red rug 
that he has thrown over the table ; it touches the plush 
sofa in the background, it lights the cultured faces, 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



and throws shadows on their shining linen, and at 
the same moment, who is that that opens the door 
and makes mine host spring to his feet, while every 
one of the six, arrested in the work in hand, fixes 
his interested eyes upon the same point? Rembrandt 
understood such things; the sunlight always came just 
right for him, for, naturally, when it came wrong he 
let it go by. Oh, this divine artistic sense of the 
right moment, and the fitness of things ! A study of 
such a picture sets one to praying the pentecost 
prayer for a "right judgment in all things." 

We eight have been in the habit of marking some 
of our days with red letters, and saying, "This has 
been a high day." Now to-day, Thursday, it rained, 
poured ; and we took lunch at the museum — so much 
of it as we were able to secure after long patience; 
the first thoroughly poor lunch that has been set be- 
fore us. But we have come home to write in our 
diaries, "Another high day." And while I put it 
down the sun is breaking forth, the clouds are scat- 
tering ; we shall eat our dinner in haste, take electric 
tram to Het Y, pay our passage on a little river 
steamer and sail to the northwest to quaint Zaandam, 
where two hundred years ago young Peter the Great 
came to study shipbuilding for the good of his people. 

Rembrandt van Ryn and Peter the Great in one 
day! And should not that be a red-letter day? 

Farewell, 

M. 



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EIGHT LANDS IN 



XXIX— THE LAND OF THE DUTCH. 




Amsterdam, Thursday, July 29. 

Dear friends, Mijnheer, Mevrouw, Mejuffrouw: 

I would be glad to put these epithets in the 
plural, but linguistic ability fails me. I add this pretty 
bit that I find in our s:uide-book : 



Wij lev en vrij, wij leven blij, 
Op Neirlands dierben groud, 
(We live free, we live blithe 
On Netherlands dear ground), 

And those ijs are a cross between a and i — about 
like aye, aye, sir. 

What a strange thing is language ! how it sunders, 
how it binds ! how it seems to change the whole char- 
acter of a nation, although, in fact, only expressing 
it ; and what an unaccountable thing, that people living 
next door to one another should utter feelings almost 
identical in sounds so diverse ! Nature does nothing 
like it in her fauna and flora. The genera of one land 
pass gradually into those of another. But in language 
the change is as sudden as the political line on the 
map. This is a strong assertion of the individuality 

234 



EIGHT WEEKS 

of human races ; a something that Nature cannot 
mother. All of which signifies that the Dutch steeping 
process I mentioned yesterday is quite agreeable, and 
that we shall be sorry to say good-by to the land of 
dikes to-morrow, sorry to leave so much of this city 
wholly unexplored, sorry to miss the silvery bells that 
have chimed the hours for us from some neighboring 
belfry with a merry tune like the Bluebells of Scot- 
land. 

We had our steamer excursion last evening by the 
light of the sinking sun, with just time at Zaandam 
to rush across a bridge and down some crooked streets 
in the leadership of an English-speaking lad, to the 
hut of Peter the Great. This is now enclosed in a 
fine modern building owned by the Czar of Russia; 
and as the Czar does not propose to bother himself 
with evening visitors, we found it shut. We had also 
just time to hurry part of our company back to the 
steamboat and to see the other part, with amazed 
eyes, standing on the further side of a drawbridge 
which swung saucily up in their faces. So then we 
had more time and could reconstruct for ourselves the 
facts that Czar Peter came to Amsterdam incognito 
to study shipbuilding and paper-making ; that he tried 
his hand at the practical work here in Zaandam for a 
whole week, but being found out in his disguise, was 
so beset by crowds that he was fain to take refuge 
again in the city. His week's sojourn, however, made 
Zaandam famous, and has brought crowds to visit it 
ever since. My Lady in Blue declared that the re- 
puted little cottages in all colors of the rainbow were 
not in evidence, and she was with difficulty convinced 
that freshly painted dwellings could belong to past 
centuries, even when their steep gables and oriel win- 
dows nodded in affirmation. Dear little Zaandam 
houses ! If they are allowed to run down, we exclaim, 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



"Where is Dutch thrift?" And if they are kept in 
paint and repair, we ask, "Where are your ancient 
domiciles ?" Steamer number two left too soon to al- 
low us to go in search of the quaint; so we bought 
Dutch ginger-bread in cards to console ourselves on 
the boat; and while all the twilight reds and yellows 
of heaven floated over our heads, and a group of little 
Dutch maids on the deck sang ballads for the joy 
of their hearts — not even putting forth their hands 
for a stuyver — we talked over the other little towns 
we should visit, did the fates permit — Broek, with its 
spotless stables ; Monnikendam, with its twentieth cen- 
tury tram putting on airs to its seventeenth century 
cottages ; Edam, where they make the cheeses, and 
Marken, matchless Marken out in the Zuider Zee, 
where the fisher folk and the windmills have been so 
long marveled at that they have learned to make trade 
of their quaintness and stand posing for photographs 
and for dubbeltjes on every corner. Now you may 
use your imaginations as we did ; for such darling lit- 
tle houses do exist in pink and blue and yellow, each 
in its tiny garden of grass and flowers, with shell- 
work and rockeries, figureheads of ships and pagan 
gods, to prove to you that the owners had sailed the 
high seas. And the tiny, paved streets on which they 
front, and the great windmills that grind their grain, 
combine to make a picture that would tempt any of 
us to throw up traveling and become artists. 

But I am lingering still in the light of last evening, 
while all of to-day is waiting for me. 

It was, of course, doubtful economy to take train 
away off through Harlem and Leyden to the Hague 
and back, instead of putting in that city on our return 
journey; but once in a while our corporate body says, 
"No ; here I am well housed, and here I will stay. I 
will pay more precious money rather than pack those 

236 



EIGHT WEEKS 



suit-cases for one night's sojourn." So we made a 
day's excursion to The Hague, and found the country- 
side full of delights we had not noticed when we first 
came by; all the growing things so attractive, the 
wooden shoes so numerous — how can those nimble 
boys play ball in them? — windmill sails being spread 
out upon their frames ready for business ; loaded boats 
creeping through the canals, each by the pushing 
power of one man with a pole against his shoulder 
walking from stem to stern ; and, as we passed the 
cities, glimpses of church towers and city halls that 
made us realize a little their national and civic sig- 
nificance. 

The Hague is a lovely city, without any unusual 
feature to exhaust one's exclamation points. Broad 
and straight streets, much shade, many canals, a lot 
of little parks within, and the larger Bosch jes with- 
out, pleasant palace grounds right in the centre — 
what more could one desire to enjoy without weari- 
ness. There are just three things that one must see — • 
the Binnenhof, the Picture Gallery, and Schevenin- 
gen. So we made our way by tram to the square 
called "het Plein," and looked around first at the 
Binnenhof, a kind of quadrangle of stately civic 
buildings that have looked down on all the most im- 
portant events of this place. The Hall of the Knights 
in the centre has been keeping guard here since the 
Middle Ages, and a few years ago was honored by 
being the meeting place of the International Peace 
Conference. It has seen much that was not peace, in 
its day, and especially two tragedies, when the state 
put to death its own loyal citizens; one was under 
Prince Maurice, son of the great William, when the 
Grand Pensionary, Oldenbarneveldt, here went to the 
scaffold, an old man, and falsely accused of treason ; 
the other, fifty years later, when the two brothers 

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DeWitt were actually torn in pieces just outside its 
precincts. The splendid energy of Holland in defend- 
ing herself from oppression, and in advancing com- 
merce, manufactures, navigation, and literature in the 
midst of the struggle, inclines us to think only good 
of the little nation ; and one hates to read of internal 
feuds, of political prisoners and torture chambers. 

In Dutch history the one magic name of William 
the Silent, or William, Prince of Orange, will carry 
one a long way, just as the two words "Gilbert" and 
"London" are said to have brought Thomas a Becket's 
young mother all the way from Palestine to England. 
But that is a rather hazardous way of traveling. We 
manage pretty well by remembering that dukes, counts 
and ruling bishops belong to the centuries between the 
great Charlemagne and the other great Charles, the 
Emperor Charles V., who protected the land in all its 
industries ; that under his bad son, Philip II., evil times 
came upon it, especially from the cruel governor, the 
Duke of Alva ; and that now began a struggle for lib- 
erty in which the Belgian states joined for thirty years 
only, but the Dutch states kept right on until reorgan- 
ized at the Peace of Westphalia as an independent 
republic. During this struggle of eighty years the 
great William was the leader until his assassination ; 
after him his sons and various stadholders and grand 
pensioners, but always at the choice of the people. And 
ever since, except for a few years when Napoleon set 
up republics or kingdoms at his own will, this sturdy 
little country has ruled itself, for better or worse, but 
usually for better. Since 1815 it has been a hereditary 
monarchy. 

That Peace of Westphalia, 1648, is a name and date 
worth remembering, for it closed the Thirty Years' 
War, which we are constantly running up against in 
the continental history, and was a general clearing- 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



house for old national scores ; and it is quite a help to 
poor memories to be reminded of the German joke 
that calls the thirtieth anniversary of a marriage "The 
Peace of Westphalia." 

Here we are, then, standing on one foot, as Horace 
says, while we see the history of this nation filing 
before us in clogs, on skates, in canal boats, in ships 
of the high seas, and we all this time in the Binnenhof, 
and hoping the little queen will drive by with the 
heiress apparent. The old building that forms the 
quadrangle known by this name now houses the two 
chambers of Parliament, and just a little east of it, 
fronting on het Plein, is the second thing we are to 
see, the choice Picture Gallery in the Mauritzhuis. To 
all its galaxy of stars poor we can give but one hour. 
But at least we take a good look at Rembrandt's 
School of Anatomy, and have a little discussion among 
ourselves whether a scene in a dissecting room can by 
any right be made the subject of a work of art; and 
we stand as long as ever we can before his Presenta- 
tion in the Temple. Was ever such joy and reverence 
combined as here, where Simeon holds the Christ- 
child in his arms and cries, "Now, Lord, lettest Thou 
Thy servant depart in peace?" We also stand amazed 
before the bigness of Paul Potter's Bull, and the 
minuteness of a lot of little people who keep house or 
join in frolics or watch the sick in those choice inte- 
riors beloved of Steen and Metsu and their ilk. 

And now away by tram through a wealthy resi- 
dence quarter, all-flowering shrubs, vines, terraces and 
groves to Scheveningen, the bathing place par excel- 
lence of all this western coast. What huge hotels 
upspringing from the sand ! How appalling this 
amount of modern-day elegance ! Music and toilets, 
garden restaurants, carriages and auto-cars ! We are 
in a veritable Atlantic City. But never mind the 

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gayeties in which our tourist attire has no concern. 
Keep right on to the big sea-wall, below which 
stretches out the real beach ; and what is this unique 
sight that takes you captive? A grand color scheme 
of blue and white and yellow ; blue sky with blue 
waves below it ; a broad dash of cream-white sand ; 
and all over it, in streaks, in splashes, in mass, the 
yellow of the shore chairs. To this you may add white 
canvases of bath houses, groups of children in white 
and colors, and a sprinkling of Dutch costumes, where 
bath-house matrons are rinsing and hanging out their 
towels and suits. 




We looked in vain for incoming fishing-smacks and 
for the fishwives of broad hats and wooden shoes, 
crowned with their dripping fish baskets. Fashion and 
frolic have crowded them away from sight, but the 
scene that is left in their place is simply beautiful, and 
the air in which it is set, an elixir. So what do we 
mind if we have two hours of railroading back to Am- 
sterdam and a longer journey to-morrow morning? 
This is a good closing for our Holland picture gallery 
— another high day. 

Breezes from the sea for you all, and farewell. 

M. 



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EIGHT WEEKS 



XXX— FROM ANTWERP TO AIX. 

En Route to Aix la Chapelle. 

Friday, July 30th. 
Dear friends: 

We thought we had left beloved Holland be- 
hind us, but a wedge of its territory pushes in 
between Belgium and Germany, and gives me the 
opportunity of beginning a letter once more from this 
goodly land. 

I am sorry that I have to report so slight an ac- 
quaintance with Belgium, for that is a good land, too ; 
but we have seen with our eyes only Brussels, where, 
as you know, we bought lace and were favored with 
night scenes in continuous performance, and to-day 
Antwerp, of which I will tell you soon. We are glad 
that Belgium and Holland have sometimes shared for- 
tunes, for that makes our historic burden the lighter; 
and we find it not difficult to remember that in the 
great struggle for independence in the sixteenth cen- 
tury Belgium got tired of the contest, went back to 
her masters of Spain, and was after that passed on to 
Austria and France, and that, on the downfall of 
Napoleon, at that other national clearing-house, the 
Congress of Vienna of 1815, she and Holland were 
again yoked together for a time as the Kingdom of 
the United Nethei lands. Do you remember two little 
churches in a certain New England village that are 
every now and then on the verge of uniting, but never 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



bring it about ? Their doctrines and their practice are 
much alike, and every motive of expediency would lead 
to their union ; but that Scotch Presbyterians should 
renounce their traditions or New England Congrega- 
tionalists their freedom — who could expect that? 
Well, here stand these two admirable and thrifty lit- 
tle countries side by side ; kindred, too, in the outset ; 
and they have gone the length twice of uniting; but 
with what results? After fifteen years of cooperative 
housekeeping, to please the Congress of Vienna, Bel- 
gium just could not endure the Dutch half of the fam- 
ily any longer, and in 1830 got up an out-and-out 
revolution ; while Holland, except for the shock to 
her wounded pride, was thoroughly glad to have her 
uncomfortable cousin cook at her own kitchen fire. 
And ever since they have been better friends for not 
trying to be anything nearer. 

One of the two nations speaks Dutch, a Teutonic 
language; the other long ago adopted a romance lan- 
guage, French. One is Protestant, the other Catholic ; 
one affects whatever is solid, quiet, law-abiding; the 
other loves to shine, to make a noise, to be exhilarated. 
Both are peoples of talent, and in art are rivals. Bel- 
gium boasts of the Van Eycks, Hans Memling, Quen- 
tin Matsys, the three Breughels — (how lovely of them 
to choose such specialties that men may call them 
"Peasant Breughel," "Velvet Breughel," and "Hell- 
fire Breughel"!) — Rubens and Van Dyck. Holland 
sets over against these Rembrandt, Van der Heist, 
Frans Hals, Jan Steen. The Flemish painters have 
given us a predominance of sacred pictures, crucifixes, 
altar pieces. Even Rubens, with all his flesh and 
frippery, does his best works in the themes of the 
Crucifixion and of the Last Judgment. But the Dutch, 
as I have said before, are essentially the portrayers of 
the life of their own time. 



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In literature, Holland is far ahead; for Belgium 
had come under the rule of foreigners before the edu- 
cational power of printing was felt, and had assumed 
their speech and literature for her educated classes. 
The old Flemish language, closely allied to the Dutch, 
is still used in many country places and taught in the 
schools ; but it has created no classics. 

With these contrasts in our mind, we had not been 
averse to finding Brussels a lively place, and in 
Antwerp we were quite uncertain how we were to be 
impressed ; for we knew that under Charles V. she had 
vied with Venice and Genoa in wealth and commerce, 
and that at this day her harbor is one of the finest and 
busiest in Europe ; also that her art treasures are great, 
and that any one of her museums would demand a half 
day for a reasonable visit. Therefore we, having an 
hour and a half for the whole interview, had decided 
to give this to the seven-aisled cathedral and to any 
further impressions that might steal upon us between 
the station and the Cathedral Square. Now our be- 
ginning of these impressions was fine; for while we 
were crowding face against face at our railway win- 
dows to catch a glimpse of the cathedral spire — that 
spire that Emperor Charles V. had compared to Mech- 
lin lace, and Emperor Napoleon had declared worthy 
to be kept under glass — we became aware that we 
were entering Antwerp in phenomenal style. High up 
abreast the balconies of elegant residences we were 
sliding smoothly along between balustrades of marble. 
What did this splendor mean ? That a great city, hav- 
ing brought her railway into the heart of her resi- 
dence section, had decided to make the necessary cause- 
way a thing of marble grandeur, like the arches and 
aqueducts of ancient Rome. Poets and painters of our 
century are glorifying the might of machinery, the 
rhythm of manufactures, and here are architects who 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



have laid hold of these giants of labor and told them 
that they must give beauty as well as strength. 

And next, as we were all prepared for further im- 
pressions, Nature, considering that we had only an 
hour and a half for all Antwerp, mercifully sent a 
downpouring rain. That gave a possible explanation, 
don't you see, of our rushing in and out of this home 
of art as though it were an abode of the plague. 

You remember that we were bent on reaching 
Cologne for Sunday ; also that we saw a whole city 
yesterday, which usually means a certain numbness to 
new sights. And yet, for very shame before the cab- 
men, I was glad that it rained. "Yes, drive directly 
to the cathedral, and after that through a few of the 
best streets and the Gran' Place. No, we can't go to 
any museums to-day ; you see the rain." And leaving 
it to be implied that we might drop in again on almost 
any pleasant day, we are off for Notre Dame. 

Now no lingering, if you please, for outside impres- 
sions, but line up with other visiting carriages in the 
lee of the nave, then up with umbrellas and hurry into 
the interior. Here it is in all its greatness, the wide, 
wide, open stretch of floor and pillars and vaults — a 
cathedral to be taken in slowly and studied from 
many different points of view ; and here are we, reach- 
ing out wildly for definite impressions, and conscien- 
tiously trying to grasp the scope of Rubens' two great 
paintings, the Descent from the Cross and the Eleva- 
tion, which stand on permanent exhibition in the two 
transepts. No doubt that Rubens here puts his splen- 
did use of color and his masterly drawing to good 
account, and rises to his highest level of grandeur. 
Those of us who have known him only through his 
glorification of Marie de Medici in the Louvre are 
glad to be able to see him in these nobler works. 

Outside the church we take a hasty look at the iron 
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EIGHT WEEKS 



well-curb and canopy of Quentin Matsys of four hun- 
dred years ago, tell over to ourselves how love trans- 
formed a blacksmith to an artist, and then drive past 
the triangular park that, with greenery and lake, 
makes a unique centre of the city, and so back to our 
station with the marble approaches. You may be in- 
clined to ask whether such a survey of a city pays for 
the effort of stopping. I think it does. Such flash- 
light views are certainly not desirable, and are not 
often to be admitted even into a rapid tour like ours; 
but if we put nothing more inside our diaries than 
this : "Seven-aisled cathedral, Rubens' masterpieces, 
Quentin Matsys' iron well curb, triangular park," we 
have thereby taken hold of a great city, and we shall 
be more likely to add little by little to our acquisition 
than to lose it entirely. Rubens and Quentin Matsys 
are already old friends to some of us who did not 
know them by name when we left home. And as for 
the docks and museums left all unseen, what care we? 
For are we not on the way to Aix la Chapelle, to com- 
mune with ancient Charlemagne, first and greatest of 
northern emperors? 

Now, if you had been twice on the verge of this 
same consummation at gaps of fifteen and twenty 
years, and had been first shut off from it by the sud- 
den closing of one of the doors of fate, and a second 
time by the unannounced departure of the train you 
were waiting to take, what would you do about it? 
Give up Charlemagne and his cathedral? Just take 
him on faith from history books and German Marchen 
and pretty French tales? Or would you say, "Three 
times and out," and before ever you left America stip- 
ulate with your round-trip agent and your beloved 
eight that, come what might, and connect what might, 
and skip what might, you were to see Aix and worship 
in the church of the emperor ! 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



Well, here it is at last, and My Lady of the Guide 
Book is dissolved in a great smile at finding herself 
again, after many years, on German soil. And how 
does she recognize so quickly the atmosphere of the 
Fatherland? By the thrilling of the German blood in 
her veins when it comes to its own again? Oh, no; 
but just by the plain use of her senses. She hears the 
twanging of the vibrant consonants and the welling 
up of big-mouthed vowels, where you hear only the 
guttural r and ch ; and she sees every building of the 
station and every uniformed official adorned and la- 
beled with a most superior quality of red tape. You 
discredit her observations, and find only the Prussian 
colors of black and white in occasional evidence. But 
wait a moment. What is that ticket puncher at the 
gate grumbling about? "No names signed at the bot- 
tom of those eight ticket-books?" "But there is the 
name distinctly given at the top." "No, no; here it 
must be, on this line at the bottom." "But this is the 
way they were given to me in London, without any 
name at all, and I afterwards wrote it in for my own 
convenience, as you see." "No, madame, you do not 
understand me ; these are not good unless the name is 
written on each, so, at the bottom." "But just this 
way I have used them in France and Belgium and 
Holland." "Madame, you do not understand me ; 
Prussia is more exact than other countries ; you must 
write all your names there, at the bottom ; do you 
see?" My Lady thanks the official for his kind solic- 
itude, gives an implied promise that the names shall 
be duly written at the bottom, and we are passed 
through the gate. And now, what prevents us from 
taking that welcome road labeled Ausgang, which we 
are beginning to recognize under its varied forms of 
exit, sortie, uitgang, and the rest? Oh, there is a 
custom-house to be visited, and no longer are the 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



eight innocent suit-cases to be passed over with a 
glance. Into the examining room with them all, and 
you ladies follow with your keys. But one of our 
number is white with an all-day headache, and a car- 
riage she must have, and have it quickly. "Her suit- 
case is not locked, examine it as you choose, only let 
My Lady pass, and one of us to go with her." You 
would have thought us all palpable diamond smug- 
glers from the difficulty we had in getting My Lady 
of the Veil to her cab. Never in all her life had she 
run the gauntlet of so many suspicious looks. The 
examination was not severe, but thoroughly in order ; 
and we all began to recognize that excellent red tape 
is a part of the paternalism under which we had 
come to sojourn for a time. 

For the arrival, you see, is now of the past ; we 
have had our supper in the good inn at the sign of 
the elephant ; we have taken cognizance of the foam- 
ing beer and the ubiquitous cigar ; also of the German 
wurst and schwarzbrod at neighboring tables, and we 
must betake us at once to our high-piled beds, to be 
ready for the brief morning hours in long-expected 
Aix. 

Good-night, with greetings from a thousand years 
ago, and good wishes for all your own postponed 
ambitions. 

M. 



247 



PART V— THE RHINE. 



XXXI— THE CITY OF CHARLEMAGNE. 




From Aix to Cologne. 

Saturday, July 31st. 
Dear friends: 

This heading is brief and simple; but what a 
mighty content in its four words ! 

There is a pretty story about the great emperor ; 
how his eastern wife, Frastrada — one of a series of 
wives — owned a jewel that was a love charm; how, 
after her death, it came into the hands of a high 
chamberlain, and by him was dropped into a deep pool 
at Aix; and how from that time on no attractions of 
love or war could long detain great Charlemagne from 
the vicinity of this, his loved abode. Be it the eastern 
jewel or the mineral springs, the charms of nature 
or the advantage of a central location, this little Roman 
city became the favorite residence of the great ruler. 
Here he built his palace, and close beside it his min- 

251 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



ster, modeling the latter after the octagonal church 
of San Vitale in Ravenna. 

During Charlemagne's early days three great pow- 
ers had been contending for the lordship of Italy — the 
Pope in Rome, the eastern empire, which still tried 
to rule the peninsula through "Exarchs" established 
in Ravenna, and the Lombards, who had claimed to 
be masters for two hundred years, had a nominal king 
in Pavia, and a score or two of almost independent 
dukes scattered through the north and south. The 
Pope had his pillared basilicas on every hand — beauti- 
ful churches, originating in the law courts of the Ro- 
mans ; the Exarchs had more basilicas and octagonal 
baptisteries, built in part by Theodoric and his Os- 
trogoths, and adorned with glorious mosaics which 
are still the wonder of our day; the Lombards were 
not far behind in the cathedrals with which they had 
dotted the country. All these structures young Charle- 
magne became familiar with during the wars carried 
on by his father, Pepin and himself, against the Lom- 
bards ; and when he had crowned himself King of 
Italy with the Iron Crown of Lombardy he began to 
think of transplanting Italian elegance to the more 
barbarous north, where he had chosen his home, and 
where he was surrounding himself with ecclesiastical 
sees on every side. It was the matchless octagonal 
Church of San Vitale at Ravenna that he took as his 
model. His minster was well under way when he 
went down to the Pope as King of the Franks and of 
Italy, and returned as Emperor of Rome; in it he set 
up his marble throne which later became a coronation 
chair; here he worshiped on Sabbaths and feast days; 
here he gave thanks after cruel massacres of the 
heathen ; and here he chose to be buried. A colossus 
in history, this Charlemagne, with his giant powers, 
his giant wisdom, his sunlight and shadow of char- 

252 



EIGHT WEEKS 



acter. Aren't you sorry, as we were, never to have 
been in Aix? 

Early this morning there was a great bell that began 
to ring, and one of us cried to another : "Do you 
hear it? Do you hear it? The bell from Charle- 
magne's minster calling us to prayer ! Oh, make haste, 
make haste, for I hear the great organ even now, lead- 
ing the morning worship." 

Perhaps you have already divined that it is against 
the principles of the eight to begin the day at an early 
hour — that the traveler's candle must not be burned 
at both ends, and that in general it is the morning end 
that is more under his control ; so we and our circular 
tickets long ago agreed to make few early starts ; and 
herein we found that the most approved express trains 
were usually in our favor. But to hear Charlemagne's 
bells calling us to prayer ! and down the stairs we 
dropped, pushing in our hatpins as we went, to learn 
from the porter that our supposed organ was a morn- 
ing concert in the garden of the neighboring Kursaal ! 
A concert before 8 a. m., to lighten the rising of gouty 
patients and slothful travelers ! Truly, here was a 
new evidence of paternalism. But no concert could 
furnish that deep-toned bell, and toward it we pushed 
our way, past market stands loaded with fruits, mar- 
ket women in aprons and kerchiefs, alive to the needs 
of early housewives ; cabbages, salads and white- 
stalked chard ; chickens dangling by their feet, squeal- 
ing pigs in bags ; pots of pinks and mignonette ; great 
bunches of marigolds; butter and cheese served on 
grape leaves ; gathering crowds from three converg- 
ing streets, chattering, bargaining, chaffing as though 
the minster shadow did not fall across their way, nor 
any whisper of the ages tell them to speak low. But 
oh, give thanks with the worshipers therein, for the 
transept doors are open, a tinkling bell of morning 

253 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

mass comes to our ears, candles are burning on the 
altar, a little congregation of the devout are following 
on their knees the ministrations of the priests, and 
under the lofty dome, among the pillared arches of 
price we, too, may kneel and lift up our hearts. 

The church is far more beautiful and imposing than 
we had dared to hope. An octagon of about fifty feet 
in diameter soars to a dome of twice that altitude ; 
supporting this dome are eight massive piers of veined 
marble connected by a double row of pillared, round- 
topped arches that reveal behind them the shadowy 
depths of the two-storied ambulatory. This is the 
original church of Charlemagne ; in it hangs the 
gilded candelabrum presented by his great successor, 
Frederick Barbarossa, after three hundred years ; and 
in the gallery stands the marble coronation throne. 
On the east this octagon opens into a beautiful Gothic 
choir, all windows, like the Sainte Chapelle in Paris. 
In any other place one's attention would be engrossed 
by this architectural success. The lancets are as slen- 
der as the Five Sisters that we admired in York ; but 
these are thirteen in number, and rise to the height 
of eighty-seven feec, in place of fifty. It is a swan- 
like beauty that is before us ; but who remembers the 
swan when Jove's eagle comes by? And it is the 
octagon of the marbles and the arches that fills our 
hearts. A mosaic of Christ and the saints draws our 
eyes to the dome, a modern copy of the work of 
Charlemagne's time, this, too, transferring to the far 
north the glory of the southern capital ; for Ravenna 
had long taken the place of Rome as residence city 
for the rulers of the peninsula, and Charlemagne had 
determined to make Aix la Chapelle a second Ra- 
venna, a free city of the empire, a seat of royalty. For 
ten years after the completion of his church he wor- 
shiped within its walls ; then on his death was buried, 

254 



EIGHT WEEKS 



seated in imperial robes, in one of its chapels. Em- 
peror after emperor received the crown of Germany 
in this place, and occasionally one of them looked into 
the tomb. Otto III. found the monarch still sitting in 
state, after two hundred years ; Frederick Barbarossa, 
a century and a half later, laid the crumbling bones 
in a sculptured sarcophagus ; and Frederick III., after 
another three hundred years, transferred them to a 
shrine of gold and silver. Here they are still pre- 
served in the treasury, along with the emperor's ivory 
hunting horn and the still more precious relics of the 
Virgin and the Christ that are displayed for the vener- 
ation of the faithful once in seven years. 

We have reached the lands where relics have a 
meaning hardly understood by us. The first impulse 
of the western traveler is to discredit their genuineness, 
and his next, to belittle their value. But is it not a 
part of our European education to consider a little 
their influence on the civilizations with which we are 
in touch? Suppose a belief in their miracle-working 
to be a thing of the past, and their efficiency in saving 
a soul from torment to be equally disbelieved — what 
shall we say of their effect as links with the past, the 
very thing which we students of history are striving 
after? To how many thousands, nay, millions, have 
not relics made real a great event, a far-away saint, 
in a way to effect the whole tenor of their lives? Does 
not Charlemagne mean the more to us for our sitting 
here in his minster? And what if we had time to see 
that wonderful hunting horn that he blew in battle in 
the grim old days ? 

But we can stay no longer in this sanctuary of ab- 
sorbing interest. We scan with regretted haste the 
bronze west doors of Charlemagne's own ordering; 
note the variety of architecture introduced by the 
gradual addition of chapel after chapel and the erec- 

255 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



tion of the western spire ; view the outside of the 
Rathaus (city hall), a fascinating medieval building 
with Gothic spires, arcades and windowed roofs, built 
on the site of Charlemagne's palace, and partly from 
its choice material; drink from the Elisenbrunnen in 
a colonnaded modern spring house a draught as hot 
and sulphurous as when the Romans first discovered 
these restoring waters ; buy photographs and models 
to help our weakly memories; and, as a counter-irri- 
tant to historic pressure, give flying and longing 
glances at shop windows lovely with jewels and 
blouses and lace. 

Now you who have time and libraries, please read 
a plump history of Charles the Great in our behalf ; I 
am sure you'll be glad of the gain on your own ac- 
count. Look up the legends that have grown up about 
him, his wives, his courtiers, his sins and penances, 
his campaign in the Pyrenees, with all that befell his 
Paladius, especially young Roland and his horse and 
sword — whereof you may even go so far as the old 
French chanson called by his name ; find out why we 
say, "I'll give a Roland for your Oliver" ; then con- 
tinue with a brief sketch of those German emperors 
who must needs wear the silver crown of Germany, 
the iron crown of Lombardy and the golden crown 
set upon their heads by the Pope before they could 
claim their full titles ; call up before you the thirty 
coronation ceremonies that have filled this minster 
with throngs sceptered and robed, and the streets with 
processions and music ; add a list of the imperial diets, 
ecclesiastical councils, and political congresses that 
have flung out their regalia in the Kaisersaal and 
council hall of the Rathaus ; and finish — if you have a 
little brain and patience left — with the international 
treaties that have here set the world at peace after 
notable wars. 

256 



EIGHT WEEKS 



Thank you, sincerely ; and if you can transfer the 
results of your study to our own toppling skulls, thank 
you many times more. 

We are nearing Cologne, but our thoughts have 
been so full of that which we have left that we have 
hardly marked any possible changes in the landscape 
and country sights, and leave you to find them out 
from other sources, if you desire. 

Do you realize that Charlemagne was entered in the 
Romish calendar as a saint some eight hundred years 
ago ? I fear his greatness overshadows his saintliness, 
for we seldom hear him spoken of by his saintly title. 
Nevertheless, we find ourselves repeating in the roar 
of this noisy train that glorious thanksgiving of our 
own day: 

For all the saints who from their labors rest, 
Who Thee by faith before the world confessed, 
Thy name, O Jesu, be forever blest ! 
Allelujah ! 

Thou wast their rock, their fortress and their might; 
Thou, Lord, their captain in the well-fought fight; 
Thou, in the darkness drear, the one true light. 
Allelujah ! 

Gratefully and gladly yours, 

M. 

Evening. 

Although I have closed one letter to you this very 
day, I am taking up my pen anew ; a genuine grip, this, 
on Time's old forelock, as you will see. 

We are sitting by our hotel windows within sight 
and sound of the great cathedral, its pinnacles flash- 
ing white, and snowlike in the city's electric lights 

257 



EIGHT LANDS IN 




Gopher 

KAROLVS 

against the black of a city sky, and one of its great bells 
tolling out stories of the centuries. We know that 
when Sabbath day comes we shall have little time or 
thought except for the great sanctuary, so we are all 
writing up letters and diaries, and I am taking this 
hour for an important errand to you. I wish to intro- 
duce you, every one, to an old and dear friend whom 
I hope to have much with us during the few days to 
come. I have known him after a fashion since I was 
a child — my earliest acquaintance being by hearsay, 
and continuing later by the help of books and pictures 
and the letters of mutual friends, until it grew into a 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



kind of wondering worship. Later, when I met him 
face to face, I found that the half of all his excellences 
had not been told ; and I have an idea that now again 
I shall be taken captive by unremembered charms and 
by depths of character into which I had never fully 
entered. Is it a trifle of a damper on my enthusiasm 
that among all his admirers he has probably never 
heard of me or realized that we are verily great 
friends ? Well, I hardly think so. We shall see. 

Of rivers many there are many and varied kinds; 
and when I tell over a little geographical list of those 
that all the world knows — the Thames, the Seine, 
the Tiber, the Nile, the Euphrates, the Ganges, the St. 
Lawrence, the Mississippi — every name is as good as 
the opening of a book ; it sets one's thoughts awander- 
ing to lands and people diverse, to histories entranc- 
ing, to pictures that have no end ; and if I should ask 
you which one you liked the best, there would be a 
year of answers and of reasons why. For a river has 
a definite personality. It is not like a country, which 
is always changing its boundaries ; or a mountain, 
which can be said to have no exact limit between itself 
and the plain ; or a city, which to-day is of brick and 
to-morrow of marble, to-day rises in beauty and to- 
morrow lies in ruins. A river is an individual as an 
island is, but more alive, for it is ever moving, speak- 
ing, and conveying news from one land to another. It 
is never for two consecutive minutes of its existence 
made up of the same constituent parts — a thousand 
little rills flowing in from above and a thousand waves 
passing out into the ocean; and yet it is always that 
same blessed old river, that world traveler, that bearer 
of wealthy burdens, that teller of darling tales. I have 
a feeling that the Ganges is the most wonderful of 
them all, journeying down from the snows on the Roof 
of the World through cities of the Grand Mogul and 



259 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



temple-studded ghats to the hot waters of the Indian 
Ocean. But some of you will cry out for the Nile, and 
will also ask me why, in the name of common sense, I 
am wandering a whole page away from my coveted 
introduction. Why, just because I cannot see it right 
to present you to my friend, the River Rhine, before 
setting him first in the circle of his peers and letting 
you see how nobly he lifts up his head among them. 
Is he not the clearest and homiest of them all, this old 
friend of everybody ? Who more blithe than he in his 
Alpine cradle and his blue playground of the Lake of 
Constance? Who more bold than he when he takes 
his one riotous plunge down the malachite falls at 
Schaffhausen ? Who more faithful to take up his life 
journey, slowly, gallantly, unwearyingly through five 
hundred miles of vineyards and castles, cities and har- 
bors till he reaches the lowland of Holland, and bends 
his proud neck to dikes and bridges — divides his 
mighty current into a thousand imprisoned canals, 
accepts the yoke of man's control as absolutely as ever 
conquered nation yielded to Rome, and passes out 
into the great deep through gates of man's devising 
and at the times appointed to suit man's needs. 

So now you are properly introduced just as I pre- 
pare to lay my pen aside. You may make a nearer 
acquaintance with Father Rhine at any moment by a 
walk of a block or two from our hotel ; and of all his 
noble cities and cathedrals you may take account when 
we make our anticipated journey of Monday. 

We eight have also begun to be old friends with this 
grandest of German cathedrals; but of that I cannot 
begin to tell you at this near approach of bedtime ; so 
now good night, with dreams that move smoothly to 
the sound of quiet waters and of a mellow, tolling bell. 

As always, 

M. 
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EIGHT WEEKS 



XXXII— KOLN. 




Beloved: 

You may with us begin, not only the week, 
but the month, in the courts of the Lord's house. 
According to our original determination, we have been 
resting to-day; merely dropping in to a few churches 
and taking a walk for pleasure. But, alas ! churches 
are many in Cologne, and architecturally fascinating. 
Also, our strolls must needs be up and down the city 
streets ; shops are open the latter part of the day, and 
my Lady of the Star, who never turns her Sunday 
chariot to other than ecclesiastical attractions when at 
home, is able to tell us, at the end of these twelve 
hours, in just which street and arcades we may find 
the daintiest embroideries ! Alas and alas ! 

Of these churches there are two great types — the 
Romanesque, which in Germany held its own a century 
later than in France, and the Gothic. Of the latter this 
cathedral is the great exponent, and with it we un- 
chronologically began our acquaintance as soon as we 
reached the city yesterday afternoon. 

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Grandly it dominates the whole of Cologne, lifting 
its huge but shapely mass above everything around it. 
Like the lode-star, it draws your eye from every point 
in the great plain ; nearer it becomes an unending study 
of towers and pinnacles, buttresses of cyclopic mass, 
and traceries of flowery work in stone ; close at hand 
it delights and overwhelms with its abounding statuary 
of four centuries ago, and its superb bronze doors of 
recent decades. All the time you feel as though you 
were studying a mountain — a carved precipice — so vast 
it rises beside you ; and when you set out to walk 
around it, if by daylight you seem to pass all the shops 
and sights of the central city in your journey; if by 
night, in darkness or in moonlight, you have a feeling 
that you are alone with a great work of nature, and 
yet, somehow, a treasure-house of man. The two 
west towers rise in ornately solid squares for some two 
hundred feet — that is higher than most church stee- 
ples ; then as octagons of windows, buttresses, and 
gargoyles, more ornate, for another hundred ; and 
finally in two openwork spires, a miracle for birds and 
storms and sun to caress, up, up into the five hundreds. 

This mass of masonry, cut from the gray rock of the 
frowning Drachenfels on the Rhine, began to rise to 
its present splendor in 1248, just at the opening of the 
Gothic period in Germany. A lot of pretty stories 
gather about its christening; especially those of the 
archbishop who wearied his brain again and again for 
a design outstripping that of all other builders — held 
midnight conferences on the subject with a mysterious 
visitor on the shores of the Rhine ; was upbraided by 
him at every new production as having merely varied 
some plan already in use; and finally was obliged to 
accept the Devil's design on the Devil's terms to 
achieve the uniqueness for which he was striving. 
Equally interesting, and more historic, as you may 

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guess, are the accounts of the slow progress of the 
building; the cornerstone laid, the choir rising in its 
glory and set with windows of price which remain till 
today — so much completed at the end of seventy-five 
years ; then the beginning of the nave ; roofed over at 
half its proposed height for immediate use, and of the 
south tower, carried high enough to receive a chime of 
bells — this in the next hundred odd years ; after that a 
long lull, while the Reformation, the Thirty Years' 
War, and the conquests of the French gave a setback 
to ecclesiastical endeavor — two hundred years, at least, 
of standstill and neglect, even of robbery, abuse and 
threatened destruction; and all these years those gold 
and ruby windows sifting in the light, those bells call- 
ing to prayer, in this great work that had not yet 
attained its end. At last a revival of enthusiasm, a 
cooperation of church and state and people; gifts, 
grants, lotteries — anything to help this beloved cripple 
to his feet ; and, behold, in 1880, six hundred years 
from the solemn laying of the corner-stone, a jubilee 
of all Germany, shouting to the "top stone of the cor- 
ner," "Grace unto it !" Almost all the sovereigns of 
Europe came together to see the completion of what 
Archbishop Conrad of Hochstaden had begun, and 
to extol the excellence of the plans of Meister Ger- 
hard, which had commanded the approval of all suc- 
ceeding builders. When one considers how many mas- 
ter minds in various departments have contributed to 
the perfection of this seemingly perfect work — kings 
and emperors, archbishops and cardinals, architects, 
sculptors and painters, and how from two entirely 
opposite sources of strength — the excellence of one 
masterful plan, and the momentum of a million sep- 
arate but cooperating wills, the result has been 
reached, — one is disposed never to despair of a good 
end to be attained. Glorious Cologne — the work of 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



generations, the love of a nation, the crude, bold 
Drachenfels transformed into a temple of God, the 
will of man and the worship of man uniting here in 
"the beauty of holiness." 

Having time to begin our study with a walk about 
Zion, we can hardly make up our minds to enter for 
fear of a disillusion. I am giving you, too, this pre- 
liminary, outside view just as we took it yesterday 
afternoon. You notice that this peer of York — for 
each may be considered the king of Gothic cathedrals 
in its own land — differs materially from it in its whole 
external form. York is preeminent in its central, 
square tower, Cologne in its two west spires; York 
reaches out to immense length, Cologne attains an im- 
mense height ; York is surrounded with conspicuous 
annexes of chapter-house, vestry, treasury and the like, 
with nearby grounds of the deanery and the library; 
Cologne has hardly a pent-house attachment outside 




-v^-CSa?- 



Cxrtotv 



at€-- 



264 



EIGHT WEEKS 



its main body, but stands simple and alone in the 
jostling of the city's thoroughfares. 

I think it is safe to enter now. You will meet no 
disappointment. The nave and double aisles, unbroken 
by chapels or choir screen, and suffused with color 
from windows great and small, windows high and low, 
give you a feeling of grand and restful satisfaction. 
You cannot fathom or compass this greatness, and you 
rest in it as we do in the infinite. 

It is Saturday afternoon when we have this first 
look. We anticipate with delight our day and a half 
here in contrast with our hour and a half at York, 
and promise ourselves a series of quiet visits. Mean- 
while, this is our opportunity to see the galleries 
and towers; and now arises the usual diversity of 
attitude among us eight — a really diverting diver- 
sity. Number one thinks she shall climb that tower ; 
she is our senior member, and must set us a good 
example. Number two usually finds her energies rise 
with the difficulties of the task, and gladly seconds 
her leader. Number three — that is My Lady of the 
Star — remembers with such delight her view from 
Notre Dame that she will not miss of a similar oppor- 
tunity. Number four is a Laodicean, neither hot nor 
cold ; she neither promises nor declines. Number five 
— that is My Lady in Green — is ready to be in the van- 
guard when baggage is concerned, and to be in the 
thick of the fight in any necessary crowd ; but as for 
going up a winding stair, darkness above, the depth 
below, and air nowhere — that she will not do for any 
view this side of the Heavenly Gates. By wheedling, 
cajoling, compelling, she is in some way inserted be- 
tween two of the procession, started on the upward, 
winding way, and with terror in her face and male- 
dictions in her heart, brought safely out into the first 
station — a kind of treasury, an open breathing place 

265 



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between stairs. Numbers six and seven are fortu- 
nately driving about the boulevards and seeing in be- 
half of us all the beautiful suburbs of the city ; so 
the loathness to take risks of the first, and the loath- 
ness to lose possible sights of the second, are not on 
this occasion pitted against one another. Number 
eight. My Lady of the Veil, being both amiable and 
ambitious, has put up a prayer against folly and heart 
disease, and brought up the rear. Imagine us, then, 
at the conclusion of our first hundred steps trailing out 
six in number into the gallery of the triforium, and 
wending our way in single file along and along after 
our guide under low arches, through a bit of cool, 
black tunnel, always with the wall of the nave at our 
left and a parapet of stone at our right, over which 
last we look wonderingly to the opposite pillars and 
windows, and down into great depths of the luminous 
nave ; arriving at last, after many catchings of breath, 
at the west end, where this narrow gallery crosses be- 
tween portals below and windows above. Here we 
take our stand, right in the middle and look down 
these five pillared avenues — an extreme length of 
nearly four hundred feet, a width of a hundred and 
fifty, a height of about the same ; no break but the 
huge clustered columns, fifty-six in number ; and 
everywhere, through all this solemn state, the light 
from rainbow windows. We appreciate the altitude 
the better by having the half of it below us ; we meas- 
ure distances and sizes from the standard of these 
triforium pillars beside us, which looked so tiny from 
below ; we get a grip, as you may say, upon this 
whole by the very fact of looking down upon its great- 
ness. Can you see that every pillar bears upon one 
side a standing figure, supported by a console and 
sheltered by a carven canopy, all of stone? Those are 
the saints and apostles, the prophets and martyrs, who 

266 



EIGHT WEEKS 



have been privileged to become pillars in the house 
of the Lord. Day and night they watch and sing 
praises, they show forth the cunning of the Great 
Sculptor who carved out heroes from simple, human 
stuff. They see the darkness come without fear ; they 
welcome the dawning of the morn through the high 
lancets of the choir ; they catch the first rays of the 
sun and stand forth in a hundred different hues as 
he passes from window to window, looking in upon 
their saintliness. 

If you could just look around the corner a bit into 
the south transept you would be amazed at one figure, 
greater than them all, beloved Saint Christopher with 
his pine tree staff and his heavy child-burden. His 
story is so choice and so helpful, even to little men 
like us who are content with easy service, that it is 
always a delight to see it put into statue or picture ; 
and I have vexed my brain in vain to discover how we 
might introduce him into the over-historical calendar 
of our Protestant churches. It is a real work of 
supererogation for me to refrain from telling his 
story here, although I know it to be familiar to every- 
body, and if, some day, one of you should ask — "Just 
what is that tale of St. Christopher after all?" I should 
cry out with delight, "There, I will never again with- 
hold my tongue or my pen from one of the golden 
legends." This time, however, I will call your atten- 
tion instead to the distant chapels, eight in all, that 
surround the choir. You can hardly distinguish them 
so far away, and thereby you realize how long a dis- 
tance four hundred feet may be when found inside a 
church. The first one at your left is dedicated to St. 
Engelbert, who would have been the founder of this 
great pile but for the assassin's hand. The second 
celebrates a still earlier ecclesiastic under whose rule 
the city walls were begun. Cologne cannot live happy 

2D 7 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



without a wall. Whenever removed to make room for 
new city quarters and replaced by encircling boule- 
vards, it is re-erected in modified form half a mile 
further out. Chapel number three is sacred to Arch- 
bishop Conrad, the actual founder, and, besides his 
bronze statue, contains the original plans of the 
fagade. Number four, directly behind the high altar, 
was long the choicest of them all, for here the bones 
of the Wise Men of the East were buried, and from 
these come the three crowns that you see everywhere 
in the escutcheon of the city. Now, if you are a 
habitual doubter, don't be nasty about the pet stories 
of the world; at least pass them by with a smile at 
their beauty. But if you have faith enough to accept 
the Puritans and the Mayflower, listen a moment to 
the tale of the Three Kings; for what the Mayflower 
is to New England, that is the gallant ship of Saint 
Helena to the ecclesiastics of the middle age. Empress 
Helena herself was at first a scoffer, and declared she 
would rather her son, the youthful Constantine, should 
be a Jew than a Christian. But when she later ac- 
cepted the faith of the Nazarene she set forth with 
woman's zeal to see for herself all that pertained to 
His earthly pilgrimage. She searched Jerusalem from 
end to end ; she discovered the three crosses buried 
under Calvary ; she tested them by their miracle-work- 
ing power to find which had borne our Lord ; she 
searched out the nails, the vestments, the crown of 
thorns ; she purchased the stairs from Pilate's judg- 
ment hall, and ship-loads of earth from sacred mounts ; 
she added bones of martyrs many ; and then she sailed 
triumphantly home to Constantinople to rejoice the 
hearts of relic-loving Christendom. So when you are 
disposed to question how the crowns of the Three 
Kings happen to be in the treasury of Cologne, and are 
referred back first to an archbishop, then to the Em- 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



peror Barbarossa, and then to Constantinople, you may 
know that you are on the right track to Empress 
Helena and her ships, and may shift further respon- 
sibility upon that good and discriminating woman. 

The other four chapels are dedicated to further 
saints and bishops, and to the Holy Virgin, and in one 
of them is the most famous work of early German 
painting — the "Dombild," a huge winged picture by 
Meister Stephan of the fifteenth century. In this you 
may see, when you take time to look near by, the 
adoration of the Magi flanked by pictures of Sts. 
Gereon and Ursula, who antedate St. Helena herself 
and are two of the great saints of Cologne. As in all 
the other cathedrals we have visited, we are in a great 
crowd here, "compassed about with a great crowd of 
witnesses," and our insignificant lives, which we 
started out with in a spirit of American independence 
and of twentieth century individualism, begin to seem 
to us little parts of a great structure, essential parts, 
perhaps, like any of the myriad unmarked stones of 
this cathedral. 

Those hundred winding steps were voted worth 
while, even by My Lady in Green ; and to most of us 
they had brought so much that we were quite ready to 
descend now to terra firma and to unstrenuous shop 
windows, leaving numbers one, two, and three to climb 
the other twelve dozen, to survey the city roofs, the 
great river, and the distant Siebengebirge. All this 
Sabbath day those three enthusiasts have felt obliged 
to keep on the move, just to prove that their muscles 
are not lame ; and we, the others, have had to keep up 
with them, considering that tired muscles on our part 
would be wholly without excuse. 

For all this going no occasion has been needed ex- 
cept the good Sunday one of attending church. For 
here stand four beautiful Romanesque buildings, rep- 

269 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

resenting early days, and commemorating favorite 
saints. Their architecture is unlike anything we have 
so far seen, and yet is sufficiently simple to be taken 
in easily and to mingle ever afterwards with the mem- 
ories of worship. 

Cologne is a Catholic city, and this means that peo- 
ple come and go during church services with much 
freedom ; and we have felt no hesitation at sharing 
quietly in the worship of several congregations. Four 
churches have drawn us with an almost irresistible 
charm — first great St. Martin's, which stands quite 
near the river on land which was once an island, con- 
spicuous in all pictures of Cologne for its massive 
square tower with turrets at the corners. It is a 
hundred years older than the cathedral, and the orig- 
inal church dated back to the days of Merovingian 
kings. It is a characteristic of all these Romanesque 
churches that they make much of the eastern end, the 
choir and transept; and Gross Sanct Martin has its 
huge central tower rising over the intersection to a 
height of 270 feet. 

The three others make a rectangle with the cathe- 
dral as though the four were at the extreme points of 
a letter H, standing perpendicular to the Rhine, St. 
Mary in the Capitol being the left base; the Apos- 
tles' Church, a half mile farther away, the left top ; 
St. Gereon the right top, and the cathedral the right 
base. In this order, too, we visited them, and were 
fain to think each finer than its predecessor. St. Mary 
in the Capitol, dedicated two hundred years before the 
cathedral was begun, consists of a simple nave and 
aisles, widening out into a beautiful clover-leaf of 
choir and transepts — more accurately, a triapsal east 
end — exactly symmetrical, solid, enduring, rejoicing in 
the round arch which is the mark of the Roman- 
esque, employing it in vaulting, windows and dec- 

270 



EIGHT WEEKS 



orative frieze, and seeming to say, "This arch is 
all-sufficient ; nothing can outdo it in strength or 
beauty ; shame on you to attempt any improvement." 
The rich color with which the interior has been deco- 
rated in modern times seems to harmonize with the 
intoning of the mass, the rich melody of the organ, and 
the quaint sculptures most noticeable in the organ loft 
at the west end. We passed out through ancient 



tu 




cloisters that serve now as a connecting passage be- 
tween two streets, and took our way to the Church of 
the Apostles. This, built also with an eastern trefoil, 
boasts a dome over the intersection, a second pair of 
transepts at the west, and a square tower over their 
intersection. Here we found the stone pillars and 
walls left in natural grey with gold touches here and 
there, and rich mosaics in the choir. An admirable 

271 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



adaptation of galleries and niches adds a still further 
ornament, and the whole seems a perfect sanctuary to 
be named after the twelve. Here, too, we found 
services in progress, a crowded churchful of people 
pouring out — as many more pushing in to take their 
places, a grand pealing of the organ, responses in song 
from the congregation — but, air ! no, there was none. 
Why should one ask for air when there is plenty of 
incense? At home the question frequently ends with 
the first six words ; and if we cannot answer it satis- 
factorily in our churches, what can we expect in a land 
brought up to shut doors and keep interiors to them- 
selves ? 

Therefore we sped away to St. Geryon, the most 
charming of them all ; a nave nearly circular, a straight 
choir unfolding into a triple apse, a sacristy branching 
out here, a baptistery there, a vestibule with more 
attachments at the west end, and underneath another 
whole audience room known as the crypt, and seeming 





Nj&tre-' ,■ Ve/fc^° 



ml 



272 



EIGHT WEEKS 



as plain and homey as a New England prayer-meet- 
ing room — if you can imagine such a room with stone 
mosaic floor, low arches and pillars centuries old. 
Isn't this an ideal church, begun by good St. Helena 
herself to the honor of Captain Geryon and his three 
hundred soldiers of a Theban legion who perished here 
for their faith in the persecution just before the days 
of Constantine? The stone sarcophagi of the martyrs 
are built into the walls of the chapels that surround 
this nave, and it is their skulls above which twine the 
gold arabesques of the choir. It was touching to find 
here a children's service; innocent little Christians 
kneeling below the bones of the martyrs, and learning 
to carry out the spirit of St. Geryon in the material- 
istic bustle of to-day. 

But we must sit down again in joy, kneel down 
again in devotion with the worshipers in the great 
cathedral. In spite of the charm of the Roman- 
esque that has been about us all the morning, the up- 
springing of the Gothic columns lifts us into a new 
sphere of worship — a spirit of hope, of anticipation ; a 
feeling as though we could catch a breath of the great 
expanses of the Heavenly Temple. No gasping for 
air here, no crowding for room. The people and the 
aristocracy are side by side ; a market-woman's basket, 
a soldier's clanking sabre, a nurse in flowing apron 
with a child in her arms ; a great throng of common- 
place anybodies, with a sprinkling of tourists and sis- 
ters of mercy; and we all join our voices together to 
answer the music of choir and organ ; we all sit 
together on wooden benches and hear about good St. 
Joseph, the model to all upright men of to-day. Then 
my thoughts wander a little, for my eyes have rested 
upon one of the pillar saints done in gold instead of 
stone ; gilded, at least. Very strange that one prophet 
or apostle should be singled out for this conspicuous 

273 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



honor. I have quite lost St. Joseph and his sixth 
point of excellence in my wandering observation, 
when, lo ! the golden hands turn to stone, the golden 
mantle to gray, the golden hair flows down in grizzly 
locks, and the transfiguring light of a clear-story win- 
dow pane has passed on to other pillars and other 
saints. 

I confess that I found a lot of comfort in that golden 
statue. St. Joseph yielded to the little homily that I 
preached to myself. Who knows what moment, when 
we are standing steadfast in our lot, some light of love 
or circumstance may suddenly make us, too, step 
grandly forth in gold ? 

We all agree that Cologne has marked one, or rather 
two of our great days. To be sure, we have not seen 
the bones of St. Ursula and her eleven thousand vir- 
gins, even though their story is among the best of 
the sacred legends ; neither have we entered the ancient 
Rathouse with its Hansa-Saal, rich in political mem- 
ories, nor the banqueting hall of the old Giirzenich, 
where emperors were wont to lead the dance. We 
have not halfway observed the market-places and 
fountains, nor driven through the great Ringstrasse, 
named from all the imperial houses of Germany ; not a 
museum or zoological garden have we entered. But 
we began our day in the still small hours with a sound 
of music as high up as our fifth-story rooms in the 
hotel, and found, between the shiftings of our dreams, 
that it was not larks in the sky, but cathedral bells 
calling to matins. We have felt the ages once more 
all about us, those ages that are beginning to be old 
friends ; and we say to ourselves with increasing per- 
ception of their meaning, the words with which we 
began the day, "Oh, worship the Lord in the beauty of 
holiness." 

A good Sabbath night to you, from M. 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



XXXIII— A HIGH DAY ON THE RHINE. 

Steamer Borussia, on the Rhine, 

Monday, Aug. 2. 

Dear friends and fellozv travelers: 

After a careful consideration of our itinerary, 
and a reference to My Lady in Green as to 
my mathematical accuracy, I can confidently 
say that we have in all four full days for 
the German empire. On Saturday afternoon we 
entered it at Aix ; on Wednesday we leave by the gates 
of the Rhine and reach Zurich as our first stopping 
place in Switzerland. Does that sound to you pre- 
posterous ? Do you think we would better conceal the 
fact that we have been in Germany at all, for fear that 
we shall seem to be handling what we have merely 
touched ? Don't despair. Unless I am greatly at fault 
these four days will be a valuable possession to us, a 
pocket-kodak presentment of a large subject, a sam- 
ple from which we can reconstruct the great and glo- 
rious fabric far more accurately from having looked 
at its colors and felt its warp and woof. 

Whenever we are established for several days in a 
hotel, our possessions are almost as varied and as 
scattered as the component parts of this great empire. 
In the wardrobe wraps, overshoes, umbrella, best silk 
blouse; on the table, guide-books, unfinished letters, 
paper and ink ; on the bureau toilet articles, a spirit 
lamp ; on the bed a lot of new purchases laid out for 

275 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



general admiration ; changes of raiment in the draw- 
ers, a half-filled suit case on the rack; and everywhere 
and anywhere a few score of beloved postal cards. 
"What, take all those things in one hand, or even in 
two ! Trust all those treasures to one leather strap 
over the shoulder of a hurrying porter ! Impossible !" 
But watch My Lady Bright Eyes stow those hundred 
possessions away in their familiar corners of her suit 
case, top off even with a pink kimona and slippers, 
close, lock and strap ; and lo ! with one deft hand she 
puts all out into the corridor; and the porter with his 
strap flings three or four such microcosms over his 
broad shoulders, hales them the whole length of a con- 
tinental railway station, hoists them into our "reserved 
compartment," and slams them into the racks over^our 
heads with a vigor that makes us tremble for their 
outsides. A suit-case is a grand encourager to travel- 
ers of limited time and still more limited capacity. 
What we can do with its contents we can possibly do 
with other material difficult to handle. 

Now here is the German empire. We are along its 
western border, ascending the Rhine — that is, moving 
south. The most of the northern portion of the empire 
lies behind us untouched, and much of the southern 
part is far away at our left; but we can get a geo- 
graphical grip on the whole of it if we will and per- 
haps some historical grip besides. This empire, such 
a noble successor to that old and patched up empire 
that Napoleon brought to its close in 1806, — this, a 
German federation, while that was of mongrel breed — 
has led its proud existence since 1870 with few 
changes of boundary or constitution. It consists of 
four kingdoms — Prussia, Saxony, Bavaria, and Wiirt- 
temberg, and numerous grand duchies, principalities, 
provinces and free cities — twenty-six federated states 
in all; and has its capital in Berlin, which is also the 

276 



EIGHT WEEKS 




capital of the Kingdom of Prussia. Cologne, which 
we are just leaving behind us, is in Prussia, and the 
black and white stripes of the Prussian flag are as 
much in evidence as the red, white and black of the 
empire. Prussia, then, with its pride of leadership, its 
imperial palaces, its many provinces, stretches away to 
the north and east, with a lot of little duchies lying 
safely in its encircling arms ; and off beside the North 
Sea and the Baltic are the famous Hanse cities that 
were for centuries the cradle of industry and inde- 
pendent states — Bremen, Hamburg, Lubeck, and 

277 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



Dantzic ; the first three still retaining their autonomy 
in" the great federation. Behind us, too, lie the Harz 
mountains with the Brockenberg, the dancing place of 
the witches; the Franconian forest, with the Wart- 
burg castle; the Luther region; the region of Goethe 
and Schiller; the region of Frederick the Great and 
the Humboldts. Directly east, but far away, is the 
ikingdom of Saxony, with Dresden and its art treas- 
ures, and the lovely Saxon Switzerland, which is not 
Switzerland at all, but a beautiful rocky region along 
the upper Elbe. There is a Prussian Province of 
Saxony, as well ; and these two recall to us the fierce, 
defiant Saxons whom Charlemagne in his converting 
zeal baptized in blood; and the more recent Christian 
Saxons whose sunny, social nature Lessing contrasts 
with the Prussian solidity in his Mina von Barnhelm. 
Before the day is over we shall be passing between the 
conquered Province of Alsace on our right and the 
Grand Duchy of Baden on our left. This is the 
old Palatinate which took its name from the palace 
lords or Paladins, whom Charlemagne once estab- 
lished along the great river highway of his empire. 
At that point Wurttemberg will not be far to the east 
of us, with its capital of Stuttgart, and its memories of 
Swabian dukes and Hohenstauffen emperors. And 
beyond it, still further to the east, will be Bavaria with 
its capital, Munich, famous for art and beer and music. 
We shall see the inflowing waters of three famous riv- 
ers — the Mosel from the west, bringing tales of old 
Treves, or Triers, its Roman ruins, its medieval bish- 
ops, its luscious grapes; the Main and the Neckar 
from the east ; the first fresh from great Frankfort, city 
of emperors; the last coming down from the two 
great universities, of Tubingen and Heidelberg, and 
singing the folk songs of old Swabia. 

Now that we know what is before us in a general 
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EIGHT WEEKS 



way, we can begin watching for the castles and cathe- 
drals that will be in sight from this steamer. 

I have had to write fast, you see, while the scenery 
is still in a quiescent frame of mind, or, as we say, 
tame; for when it begins to assert itself, to grow wild 
and poetic, and fling whole volumes of legend about, 
we may as well yield to its tyranny and forget every- 
thing — except the midday meal. 

I have not told you in what excitement we left 
Cologne— excitement to it, and a little blase curiosity 
for ourselves. Two great influxes of guests were ex- 
pected, and we fancied that even our little throng was 
congeed with unusual enthusiasm. First in dignity of 
importance, a great church congress was to convene 
to discuss the Holy Eucharist and raise a new zeal in 
prelates and laity. Delegates from ecclesiastical com- 
munities of Germany and neighboring states were be- 
ing assigned to the city's hotels, the interiors of 
churches were being hung with red, and even the 
great cathedral was ringing to the sound of hammers, 
as barriers were erected and scaffoldings rose to help 
on the crimson transformation. We were almost 
tempted to break into our itinerary and wait for the 
bishops and cardinals. 

But, secondly— shall I say that we rise, or sink, to 
our further theme when we pass from a congress of 
Rome's convening to a trial trip of a giant dirigible? 
Sure it is that an immense enthusiasm was abroad in 
regard to the approach of Count Zeppelin sailing all 
the pathless blue from an aeronautic congress in 
Frankfort to the housetop crowds of the city on the 
Rhine. I say housetop crowds advisedly, for whereas 
our hotel rooms were all assigned to father this and 
friar that, our hotel roof was equally let out to father 
and brother, uncle and son, of the less elevated, or 
more elevated — lower level or higher level ranks of 

279 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



the common people. It is a queer mixture, this, of 
spiritual and terrestrial flights, of anticipated uplifts 
of body and of soul. Browning says it is all right : 

"As the bird wings and sings 
Let us cry, All good things 
Are ours ; nor soul helps flesh more now than flesh 
helps souls," 

and with confidence in the poet's dictum we are keep- 
ing an eye out for whichever good may come our way, 
and are trying to find out from the ship's people to 
which interest to attribute the showing of varied flags 
at all the wharves and clubhouses. 

At this very moment I hear an outcry at the bow of 
the boat, and must join the other seven to strain my 
eyes for cardinals sailing the water or counts afloat 
in the air. 

And it was Count Zeppelin taking his first great air 
journey from Frankfort to Cologne ! Can you imagine 
the excitement? A great crowd at the east side of the 
deck, and everybody on tiptoe to get a better view than 
his neighbor. Just a little white cigar shining up 
against the blue — unlike any bird of the air; now 
swaying a little to one side, rising, sinking. Oh, ter- 
ror! is it standing on end? or is that only the per- 
spective as it turns this way? "And which dirigible 
is this?" "Why, madam, there is but one!" (By the 
time this letter comes to your eyes there may be 
twenty, but I am telling the truth for to-day.) "And 
who is directing its course?" "Why, Count Zeppelin 
himself, the old warhorse of Franco-Prussian fame; 
the gentleman and scholar, the pride of Stuttgart, 
where he lives and is loved, the pioneer and prince of 
the airy main." 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



And now the thing came nearer so that we could 
discern with opera glasses the tiny cars suspended 
from below, and guess at the groups of clever and 
daring men who were looking down on all the world. 
Even the tourist girl who had had eyes only for the 
meeting eyes of the dark-faced tourist man, looked 
higher than his six feet, and uttered an exclamation 
of delight. Indeed, it was a gallant sight ; light as a 
bird, swift as the wind, and instinct with the spirit of 
a man. How close we crowded together at the open 
space between awning and smokestack ! How untir- 
ingly we held our places, regardless of sun and wind ! 
And why is there no whistle of applause from the 
steamer Borussia? no running up of a pennant? no 
waving and shouting from us on deck? Oh, we must 
have been very dolts for enthusiasm, self-conscious 
travelers afraid to betray our joy in a fellow-man's 
achievements. Well, well, it is out of sight now, the 
pretty creature, big as this boat, dipping and courtsey- 
ing through the blue ; and what care we for cardinals, 
with Count Zeppelin overhead? 

Here we go back to our deck chairs, and I to my 
table ; the young woman to her lodestar face and a lot 
of talk about his past and hers ; I could not help over- 
hearing it, of so much more twentieth-century interest 
than castle this and ruin that. But for most of us 
these splendid crags, lining up beside us as we journey 
south, peeping at us from every new turn of this wind- 
ing stream, surprising us at the right hand and the 
left, flinging our artist instincts into despair as the 
first silhouette changes to a more captivating second, 
and this again to the rich detail of a nearby third — 
for us, the blessed eight, these castles by the Rhine 
are all-absorbing, and I may as well put the cap on 
my fountain pen at once. That awful dinner, too, is 
beginning to throw its obscuring shadow over the 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 

kaleidoscope. Alas, for our mortal needs ! And I 
leave you to your own imaginings while I try to pack 
away on my memory shelf as many as I can of Father 
Rhine's sweet pictures. 



That dinner was a great success. Our seats on 
either side of the long tables were assigned before we 
took them; the continuous windows gave us a passing 
panorama; the food was good, and service prompt, 
and we felt the whole thing a restful break in our 
strenuous sightseeing. My Lady of the Guide Book 
also found this a good opportunity for replenishing 
our storehouse of facts, and just at the present moment 
we are able to retail to you the following from that 
somewhat leaky magazine : 

This great river varies in width from nearly a quar- 




^>pT 



-VLflUAA. tr-ivto 




-x^AexiruAc 



282 



EIGHT WEEKS 




:: C .'Ti5 v .'j>':^.'-i-- 1 -' '- 



ter of a mile, where we set sail this morning, to a 
third of that at the Swiss frontier ; and in depth, from 
being a shallow ford at the last mentioned place to 
the seventy-six feet that it reaches when passing nar- 
row and still under the Loreley Rock. Its average 
fall through the main part of its course is not much 
over two feet to the mile. Three Gothic cathedrals 
rise from its shores — Cologne, which we have just 
left, and Strassburg and Freiburg far to the south, 
which we shall not see, because we shall turn aside 
for Heidelberg castle. Cologne, as we know, rejoices 
in its perfect symmetry and twin spires ; Strassburg, 
in the variety of its architectural forms, evolved in a 
growth of several centuries, and in the one west spire 
that is waiting all these years for its rival or twin ; 
Freiburg, in its simple west tower, which rises like a 
slender pyramid of tracery — square, octagon, spire- 
presenting ever-changing forms from different points 
of view — a rival in height and beauty of Ulm in South 
Germany and St. Stephen's in Vienna. Three Roman- 
esque cathedrals divide with these our admiration — 
Mayence, which we shall see as we stop over for the 
night ; Worms, rich with legends of Bnrgundian 
queens and historic associations with Luther; and 
Speyer, magnificent both in its perfect beauty of gal- 
leried towers and decorated interior, and in its pride 
of sepulture for many German emperors. Both these 
last places are also famous for the diets held in them ; 

283 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



but we fear we may have to see them only in the dis- 
tance, as we speed by on the train after leaving our 
steamboat. 

Also, we are to look out for the two national monu- 
ments, Ehrenbreitstein, the huge fortress opposite the 
River Moselle, once a possession of the bishop-princes 
of Treves ; now the Gibraltar of the empire, looking 
up and down the river as who should say : "Is not this 
great Babylon which I have builded?" and the Na- 
tional Memorial on the Niederwald opposite Bingen 
— My Lady Germania in person, with sword and 
crown, asserting her glad sway. 

Last of all, we are by no means to fail of discerning 
on the left bank of the Rhine — that is, on our right — 
half an hour or more above Coblenz, the Konigstuhl. 
It is just an octagonal table of stone, eighteen feet in 
height, on which during certain centuries of the Mid- 
dle Ages the electors of the empire used to meet for 
the choosing of a new emperor. No lobbying possible 
there, no undue influence from powerful but unseen 
advisors ! Great is the might of simplicity ! 

So here we sit again upon the deck, and fill our- 
selves with beauty and facts ; some of us stand at the 
bow and assert that an unbroken wave of scenery 
from that point repays many hours of tired muscles. 
Others declare for the stern, and argue that every 
view gains from watching it slowly pass out of sight. 
Our Guide Book Lady, with My Lady Persistent to 
bear her out, tries to check the guide book stars as 
they pass by. "Now, which is Rheinfels and which 
Rheinstein? and which come first, the Drachenfels 
that furnished the stone for Cologne cathedral, or the 
Loreley that gave Heine the material for his poem?" 
"Oh, yes, the Drachenfels, of course, was one of the 
Siebengebirge, just above Bonn, and the Loreley is 
away up toward Bingen." "And those islands ; three, 

284 



EIGHT WEEKS 



were there not? the little Nonnenwerth, with Ro- 
landseck looking down on it, and the gallant Paladin 
mourning for his bride turned nun ; and the still 
littler Pfalz, where some emperor or other took tribute 
from passing tradesmen; and most captivating ar.d 



/ 











.-■ •■ /vyty. 



'%fa& i /'~ : & *=#■• 't-J'T^ 



—rti ~- 5 ^" 



MaX 



lei 



eerie of them all, the Mousetower Island of Bishop 
Hatto." "And may we by any possibility believe that 
the wicked bishop was really eaten up, bones and 
blood? or must we, as reasonable women, accept the 

285 



EIGHT LAXDS IN 




derivation of Mouse Tower from the old German 
Musthurm, which signifies arsenal?" "A dozen other 
islands, you say ? Well, perhaps ; but those are the 
three I shall remember." "And what about the Cas- 
tles of the Cat and the Mouse? Did they have any- 
thing to do with Bishop Hatto? Or were they stand- 
ing before his legend loomed up in the mists of Fairy- 
land?" Whereupon My Lady in Green cries out: 
"Oh, look with your eyes; rejoice in all this beauty, 
and let the names and legends go to limbo!" And 
My Lady Bright Eyes, returning from the bow to 
rest her orbs by seeing nothing, exclaims with a sigh : 
"Well, henceforth, when people talk about the Hudson 
River, I shall keep quiet," while My Lady in Blue 
affirms : "This goes beyond my brightest expecta- 
tions." 

As a counter-irritant to this drain upon the aesthetic 
sense, we discuss the ubiquitous terraces built up of 
stone on all the lower hills and bearing the most com- 
monplace-looking grapevines, trimmed and tied to 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



stakes like low bean-poles, but furnishing such a 
wealth for German pockets and German "Gemiith- 
lichkeit" that the poets have almost deified the "Reben- 
stock" and "Weinstock." Veritable stocks they do be- 
come, as they are cut back from year to year till they 
look like crooked gnomes crept up out of the inner 
earth. Of course, a good crop of leaves hides the 
stock at this time of year; and a little later the green 
and purple clusters may be discernible with a glass to 
those who pass by; but to us, who have not taken in 
this phase of poetry with our Mother Goose, a view 
against the stiff zigzag of stone masonry, with just a 
little embroidery of green to retrieve it, does detract 
from the glorious castle ruins above ; and we are in a 
terrible puzzle, as a Puritan woman has a right to be, 
in trying to balance the relative moral values of cas- 
tles, robber barons, and unlimited wine. 



But what do you think? Now, this is truth, and 
not fiction. Just as we were in danger of sinking under 
our moral problem, a small boy shouted : "There she 
is!" and all the passengers began sending a wondering 
look to the boy's outstretched hand. One of our eight 
flew to the cabin to fetch up the tired members who 
were resting their eyes by a downstairs nap — and 
there we stood again, staring at that same great air- 
ship ; nearer, nearer, bright in the afternoon sun ; 
lower, lower, till we could see the travelers in their 
cars; this time following us, accompanying us, out- 
stripping us to Frankfurt in the south. Whether the 
journey to Cologne has been accomplished, and all 
those housetop watchmen are smiling with content, we 
do not know. There is no wireless communication 
between the voyagers on high and us below. We 
remember that there were strong winds following us 

287 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



this morning. Has the good count been turned back 
in his course? Meantime, we hold our breath and 
gaze and gaze, as so many millions have gazed along 
these shores before. And as we pass the inflowing 
Main, and begin to gather up our books and wraps 
for our landing at Mayence, I have a strange feeling 
as though I could discern those gazing eyes of the 
past millenniums ; eyes that fill the whole firmament, 
like the cherubs' faces about Raphael's madonna. 
There are the eyes that stared at the great Julius and 
his soldiers when they bridged the river a half a cen- 
tury before the Christian era ; and other eyes as bar- 
barous and defiant as theirs, that watched the building 
of Drusus' fifty castles on these shores; also the sus- 
picious, lurking eyes that flashed at the growing in- 
roads and looked enmity at the legions of Varus as 
they marched steadily to the north. See the eyes that 
opened wide at St. Ursula and her eleven thousand 
pretty maids — the Christian eyes that looked approval, 
the Hunnish eyes that looked cruelty and slaughter; 
and the eyes of the white-faced martyrs that looked 
to heaven as they took their death gently as lambs of 
the Cross. Imagine the eyes in phalanxes like those 
of to-day, whenever a king went down to Aix to be 
crowned, or when archbishops and princes, with all 
their gay suites, came flocking together to the Konig- 
stuhl to choose an imperial lord. Think of the eyes 
filled with horror, that saw the armies of Louis XIV. 
ravaging the Palatinate up and down — the pitying 
eyes that watched whole villages of simple folk flee- 
ing to other lands; the eyes that gazed half in ad- 
miration, half in dread at the "little man on horse- 
back" drawing the nations into line along this thor- 
oughfare of Europe. 

O multitude of eyes ! If we could see what you 
have seen we should not sleep for many a night to 

288 



EIGHT WEEKS 



come. But we have added our own gaze to yours 
under this August sun, and have written this down 
as a red-letter day, a high day. My Lady of the Veil 
even bared her head for a half hour, in deference 
either to a headache or to this day of days. My Lady 
Practical said she was glad she came, and she wished 
she had been able to put more notes into her little 
book. Our Lady of the Star said little, but looked 
much. 

Don't you think Old Father Rhine has shown him- 
self a friend worth knowing? Tired and happy, we 
espy the towers of the Minster of Mayence, and wish 
you good night. May you have visions tinged with 
the beauties and not the horrors of this highway of 
the nation^, 

M. 



THE RHINE. 

Whither are you zvandering, pilgrim hoary? 

Down to the boundless sea. 
Where have you been tarrying for grace and for 
glory? 

By rock-bound castles that look down on me. 

Where did you gather your robes of green and azure? 

On the icy mountains where the blue skies be. 
Where your gold and crimson, your Nibelungen 
treasure? 
From Mosel and Neckar, zvhere the sun sets on 
the lea. 

Where do you linger for Sunday rest and quiet? 
In Dom and in Minster, where thousands bend 
the knee. 

289 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



Where got you your song for cloister and for diet? 
From Lorelei and Rhinefall and bell and bird and 
bee. 

Whence is your spell, your sweet intoxication? 
From Roman tale and folklore, and Rhine-wine 
alchemy. 
And how will you fret when you leave your storied 
nation ! 
Oh, no, I'll greet the whole world then, and I'll sing 

to the wide, wide sea, 
I'll sing to the ships upon the sea. 



290 



EIGHT WEEKS 



XXXIV— EVENING AND MORNING IN 
MAYENCE. 

On the Train to Heidelberg. 

Tuesday Morning, August 3. 
Dear friends: 

If only you could have shared our ten min- 
utes' look this morning at the Minster of May- 
ence it would be worth many pages of description. 
"Imposing" is a good word used by the guide book 
in regard to it; and as it is the only one of the three 
great Romanesque cathedrals that we shall have an 
opportunity to inspect at near hand, we regret the 
more our brief acquaintance. A hurried run along 
the beautiful "Esplanade" — a promenade that bor- 
ders the Rhine — a turning in at the Liebfrauenplatz 
with the apse and dome, turrets and galleries of the 
east choir rising before us; thence along the side of 
the church — through stalls and carts of market women 
to the north portal — a few moments of wondering awe 
within the solemn aisles, of wondering admiration of 
the elevated choirs at either end, of intense desire to 
explore the chapels and cloisters and view the tombs 
of emperors and electors, a frequent consultation of 
our watches, and then another quick walk in the morn- 
ing freshness between pergola trees and opening 
shops, and up the hotel steps to join our fellow-trav- 
elers at breakfast — that was all that we could do 
toward knowing this great minster. But how much 
better than no introduction at all ! A better thing still 

291 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



would have been a previous study from books and 
pictures, preparing us to see quickly, and to know 
what to see; for more and more we are convinced 
that My Lady in Green is right when she says, "You 
will remember best the things that you were expecting 
to see; surprises may delight you, but they will not 
often make so permanent an impression as the sights 
for which you were already prepared." And I can 
add to this that new acquaintance is never so rich as 
old acquaintance advanced. Therefore, if you wish 
to enjoy Mayence when you come to see it, you will 
not grudge a few words of description on my part, 
even if the jarring of this train makes the writing 
somewhat illegible. 

Mayence has been such a focal point of history dur- 
ing all of its existence that, to accost it suddenly with 
no knowledge of its pedigree and past, would be like 
walking up to Capt. John Smith without knowing 
which Mr. Smith he was. 

The Romans, pushing their conquests here under 
the early emperors, made Mayence — Magontiacum — 
the capital of Upper Germany, Treves on the Moselle 
being that of the lower province. Here the Roman 
governors held sway, and from here Roman legions 
set forth to conquer the tribes of the east. 

When St. Boniface of England preached Christian- 
ity to the worshipers of Wodan and Thor in King 
Pepin's day, Mayence was the seat of his Rhenish 
mission ; and here Pope Gregory established him as 
Archbishop of Germany. Later the Archbishop of 
Mayence was also one of the seven electors who chose 
the new emperor on the death of his predecessor, and 
thus ranked as a great prince of the empire. 

Mayence, from being a Roman capital and an 
ecclesiastical capital became next a political and a 
commercial capital, for it was the leader of the Rhen- 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



ish League — that defensive confederation of Rhine 
cities established in the thirteenth century that was 
a contemporary and rival of the Hanseatic League 
of the north. In this leadership the city grew so rich 
and powerful that it was known as Golden Mayence. 
Its more recent history has been one of wars and 
defeats, of changing masters, and final incorporation 
in the Bavarian Palatinate. 

Like many, or most, continental cities of ancient 
foundation, its centre is a close knot of winding streets 
gathering around the cathedral, the market place, the 
palace ; its outskirts, including the space along the 
Rhine, a series of parks and boulevards, with hand- 
some residence quarters. The zeal with which in all 
German cities bits of greenness are pushed into every 
available space of the inner town, and the uniformity 
with which the suburbs, and the space held by ancient 
walls, are laid out in parks and shaded avenues, is a 
lesson to us of the western world. The old foun- 
tains which at the time of their erection were the only 
water supply, are still cherished with the utmost care, 
their quaint statues restored when necessary, their 
basins often transformed in summer time into flower 
gardens that gladden the eye. The universal custom 
of making pergolas of the shade trees by forcing their 
first branches into a horizontal position and trimming 
back the new year's growth every autumn, gives a 
shade that is thick, low, and altogether serviceable; 
the shadow falls where it is wanted. Like sturdy pub- 
lic servants, the acacias or lindens or buttonwoods 
stand with arms extended and fists clenched, advanc- 
ing their part of the public weal. It is as if the forest 
trees coming into the town were proud to accept its 
limitations and to add to its beauty. 

Many of these cities, on removing their walls, still 
retain a low barrier that is convenient when they wish 

293 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



to enforce a tax on wares brought in for sale; and 
they always retain those gates that are of picturesque 
or of historic value. In this way they possess a 
wealth of monuments that link them firmly and de- 
lightfully with the past. The very stones are con- 




a 



294 



EIGHT WEEKS 



stantly crying out, the gates and towers are professors 
of history. 

And now for a longer look at this "imposing" cathe- 
dral. Stern and dark it stands before us, as though 
its face were seamed with the experiences of six hun- 
dred years. You remember we have seen no Ro- 
manesque cathedral since the Norman Abbey of Dur- 
ham, and that was very different from the works of 
the same period in Germany. At Cologne we studied 
four churches of this type ; so we are prepared for the 
ornamental use of the apse, for the outside galleries, 
for the pleasing outline against the sky. But here all 
is magnified and enriched. Two choirs, at east and 
west, terminate in gallery-circled apses flanked with 
towers, and over the crossing of the west transept 
rises a large, octagonal lantern. It is one of the excel- 
lences of the Romanesque cathedral that it throws a 
splendid silhouette against the sky. The towers, solid 
and square, with utilitarian pointed caps, might seem 
to you poor rivals to the traceried, turreted, window- 
set spires of the Gothic ; but this very solidity, just 
embroidered with an arcaded frieze or a low pillared 
gallery, and set with a few chaste, round-arched win- 
dows, is restful to the eye ; and a little family of such 
towers, established symmetrically over transepts, in- 
tersection and porch, gives an ever-changing profile 
to the architectural mountain. The portals are not 
large or conspicuous, like those of the Gothic, and 
are often, as here in Mayence, introduced into one 
side, so that there is no real west facade. But if you 
miss the doorway saints you have grown accustomed 
to in the Gothic, and the large traceried windows, you 
are compensated by a sense of massive, quiet walls 
resting unbroken through the ages, and by that sense 
of perpetual strength always felt in round-arched 
openings, simple mullions and low pillars. Each style 

295 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



has its own incomparable charm, although the two 
are as unlike as the east and the west ; and to each 
we do homage. If you can manage to come to Heidel- 
berg by way of Worms — we did not — you will have 
a great treat there; and if you can also compass 
Speyer as you leave, you will have whereat to rejoice 
all your artistic life. 

But now a few moments for this dark interior. 
Entering about the middle of the north aisle, fresh 
from the fruits and greens of the market women, it 
seems to us almost like a noble cavern; but soon we 
discern nave and aisles, and arches a little pointed 
overhead; for twice in one century this cathedral 
burned through the fault of a wooden roof, and when 
the present vaulting was constructed the pointed arch 
lent itself better to the irregular spacing of the pil- 
lars. You also notice the elevated choirs at both 
ends, the dark-blue coloring and the frescoing of the 
west choir and the nave — the deep terra cotta of the 
east, the occasional glimpses of the red sandstone and 
gray limestone of the real walls — and along the north 
and west chapels, by the pillars, and at the entrance 
to the sacristy — called by the pretty name of the 
Memorie — tombs and tombs of the rulers buried here. 
Of great interest is a tablet set into the wall by the 
entrance to this Memorie — so named because of the 
memorial services held in it — a tablet to that Fras- 
trada, third wife to Charlemagne, who had the love- 
jewel of great price, the jewel that finally wedded 
him to Aix. This eastern princess died at Frankfurt 
and was buried there, but the church of her tomb 
having been destroyed, her memory has been perpet- 
uated here. In the cloisters outside, among many 
monuments, is one to the good fourteenth-century 
poet, Frauenlob, who sang in praise of the Virgin 
and of all good women; and so excellent a thing is it 

296 



EIGHT WEEKS 



to recognize virtue in our frail sex, that Herr Frauen- 
lob has been honored with three several tombstones 
since his death, the latest having been erected by the 
appreciative women of Mayence in the last century. 

I thank you for the courtesy with which you have 
attended to this account, much longer, I am sure, 
than the time we gave to the whole sight-seeing of 
this morning; and if you will just hie away through 
the market wives one block to the west, and see Mr. 
Gutenberg standing on his monument in the Guten- 
bergplatz, with various scenes from his first printing 
press successes on bronze tablets below him, you will 
remember ever afterwards that printed books began 
in Mayence, and you will find Thorwaldsen's statue 
of him a beautiful foreground for the towers of the 
minster. 

After this matutinal tour, we found ourselves at 
the breakfast table with tremendous appetites. Now 
continental Europe holds that the best beginning for 
the day, the only possible or reasonable beginning, is 
a cup of coffee and two rolls. In Switzerland, and 
in cities near enough to feel a Swiss influence, honey 
is the delicious accompaniment; and since the great 
influx of English and American travelers in modern 
times, the pads of fresh, unsalted butter have grown 
larger and the pitchers of hot milk more generous ; 
also, an egg can always be had for an extra charge, 
and raw eggs have become so well known as to be 
easily understood in almost any kind of esperanto. 
But a cereal for breakfast, that is absurd and can 
only be obtained by ordering beforehand an English 
porridge; and fruit is such a new- world demand as 
to be ridiculous. Therefore, when we sit down to 
the pretty flower-decked tables of our hotel and see 
early peaches and garnet cherries at our plates, we 
know that somebody besides ourself has been playing 

297 



EIGHT LANDS 'IN 

early bird ; and while we spread that sombre old cathe- 
dral all over the morning repast, two of our colleagues 
modestly confess to having explored the market. Now 
is the joke on us, who went in and out of that market 
and never remembered our thirsty friends, or on the 
two who went up and down the market rows and 
never saw the cathedral ? We have agreed to leave 
the matter in dispute, and to bless the difference of 
talents existing among us. 

While I am writing the rest have full permission 
to have a little snooze through these first uninteresting 
miles before we enter the Neckar Valley, where his- 
torical annals will have to begin anew. 

M. 



298 



EIGHT WEEKS 



XXXV— HEIDELBERG. 







Alt Heidelberg, du feine, 

Du Stadt an Ehren reich, 
Am Neckar und am Rheine 

Kein andrer kommt dir gleich. 

So sang the poet Scheffel in the last century, so 
sing we on this happy day, and so will posterity sing 
as long as the ruined towers of Heidelberg Castle 
look down on the church spires and houseroofs of the 
busy city in the valley, on the blue Neckar winding 
away to the Rhine, on the faint outline of the Vosges 
Mountains in the west. 

Considering, beloved, the exemplary patience with 
which you bore my historical sketch of Mayence, I 
have decided to spare you a like account of Heidel- 

2 99 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



berg, and leave you to look up its somewhat tangled 
web and woof according to your own discretion. Pos- 
sibly I am doing one good turn for you and two for 
myself; or possibly the atmosphere of this enchanted 
valley is to the tourist so laden with invitations to 
pleasure that serious study would seem out of place. 
There are students enough in the big university to 
unravel all the problems of the past, and to them we 
will leave the Hohenstauffens and counts Palatine, 
the Ruperts, the Ottos, the Fredericks, the Generals 
Tilly and Melac, the King of Bohemia and his English 
wife; at least we will not set these forth in historic 
procession, but only invite them to join us here and 
there, as we need their help in explaining this ruined 
scene of their great exploits. 

After leaving the broad plain of the Rhine, where 
we took our nap and had a pretty tissue of dreams 
about Bischofsheim and Mannheim, Nauheim and 
Laupertheim, Biedersheim and Gensheim, Grossgerau 
and Goddelau and Kleingerau, having lost our way 
among them so utterly that we had laid down the 
guide book with a clear conscience — we soon found 
the wooded hills drawing near that were to shut us 
safely in to the beauties of the Neckar. This is a 
river that can make no great boast for size, but has 
a charming itinerary to follow from its source among 
the pines of the Schwarzwald, along the castle- 
crowned rocks of Swabia, past Tubingen the learned 
and Stuttgart the delightful, winding ever east and 
north until it runs up against the hills of the Oden- 
wald and decides to turn due west and join its for- 
tunes with those of the Rhine. These hills to our 
right and left rise soft and swelling to a height of 
from one to two thousand feet and wooded to the 
top, here a red sandstone quarry cropping out and yon- 
der a summer resort perched on high, very like New 

300 



EIGHT WEEKS 



England hills of the same altitude, except that here 
there are unmistakable marks of an older civilization ; 
for well defined roads zigzag up the slopes, solidly 
built houses of plastered brick with tiled or slated 
roofs gather in villages at their base, and occasionally 
an old monastery or a ruined tower calls loudly to 
us, "This is the old world, the old world." So while 
we are wondering and admiring in a quiet way, one 
of our party cries out : "The old bridge and the 
church!" And another: "Is that the castle against 
the wooded hills?" And we glide into the Heidel- 
berg station. A drive along the pretty park that we 
are beginning to expect near every railway depot, 
then through narrow streets with a mingling of mod- 
ern and ancient buildings and the market place with 
the old church in the centre, and we are at the hotel, 
the head waiter welcoming us in his best English 
and the porters speeding our eight suit-cases in a 
streak of winding yellow up the stairs. 

The most of this afternoon we have devoted to 
the castle grounds, the threatening clouds having given 
but a few scattered drops to mar our enjoyment. We 
had a choice of several approaches : By the easy, 
winding carriage drive, by the footpath, steep and 
fascinating, and by that abomination of the land- 
scape artist that the hurried traveler usually patron- 
izes — the Seilbahn, or funicular. This cable road, 
over which one car is steadily drawn up while its 
companion car is as carefully let down, is surely a 
convenient abomination. We all flocked into one of 
its compartments and slid smoothly and rapidly up, 
meeting our brother car on the passing switch in the 
middle, and finding ourselves in a wink in the prac- 
tical little station at the terminus, where the lindens 
and buttonwoods welcomed us to a new garden of 
Fairyland. 

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This castle was founded some two hundred years 
before the invention of gunpowder, and so was con- 
sidered easy of defense on its own shelf of the moun- 
tain, even though higher elevations overlooked it at 
no great distance. Confidently the counts and electors 
laid out the central court, sunk an exhaustless well, 
erected huge towers with walls of fifteen and twenty 
feet in thickness, connected them by many residence 
wings, scooped out a deep and wide moat on the 
three sides that were not already precipitous, swung 
a drawbridge from the entrance gate under the clock- 
tower, filled the cellars with wine, and settled down to 
a safe and happy life just above the crowded streets 
of the town. 

But the cannon of Tilly in the Thirty Years' War 
and of Count Melac in the Palatinate War of Louis 
XIV, proved too much for city and fortress ; and 
when the last named general, after a winter's resi- 
dence in these gorgeous halls, found himself obliged 
to evacuate, he was ordered by his magnificnt mas- 
ter to leave the place a ruin. Tremendous stores of 
powder were exploded in the casements of the tow- 
ers, the other parts of the building were fired, the 
town was treated in the same way, and the delight of 
the Neckar became a blasted wreck. And yet this is 
commonly spoken of as the loveliest ruin of Germany. 
Lovely ruin ! A strange association of words ! What 
is there in every one of these ancient castles that 
"does tease us out of thought as doth eternity?" That 
ruin at the outset must have looked as dire a horror 
as shattered Messina — its purpose defeated, its sym- 
metry destroyed, its art in mourning. Yet look at 
it after two hundred years as you see it from the 
valley, rosy red against the green of the Konigstuhl, 
matching in color yonder far-away quarry from 
which its every stone was cut and shaped; its long 

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north front lifting up unroofed gables, unglazed win- 
dows, broken towers — the loftiest one at the far east 
dominating the rest and looking from its empty eyes 
right royally about it, as though from the outset raised 
on high to rule its fellows ; look at it again from our 
present level as we enter at the clock-tower gate with 
so many stone men standing guard in their niches, 
and such carpets of ivy hung on its fagades, its old 
moats turned into sunken gardens, the grounds which 
soldiery once laid waste a pleasure park with res- 
taurant and afternoon concerts, you begin to wonder 
whether ruin is an element of beauty ; and you ask 
yourself what makes the difference between this ruin's 
first estate and now ; also, whether any exploded gas 
factory at home, if properly trimmed up with Vir- 
ginia creeper, would do as well ; whether the Dalles 
of the Mississippi and the grotesque shapes of the 
"Garden of the Gods" furnish us of the west a coun- 
terpart when we say of them : "They are like ruined 
castles of a giant race" ; whether, finally, those arti- 
ficial ruins that are sometimes prinked up by returned 
travelers ever do or ever could satisfy the craving of 
the occidental sense. Shall we always have to come 
to Europe for our ruins? Would we care to have 
them in our own country, with all the tales of pride 
and tyranny, robbery and war that they entail? And 
could Fairyland be Fairyland without them ? 

Well, there's the saying about a fool asking what a 
wise man cannot answer; and lest you should think 
that I consider you the answerer in this case, I plan 
to take a rainy day for it some time myself and lay 
out clearly in my own mind : First, What is the 
charm of a ruined castle? and, second, What part do 
the ruined towers of one century play in the upbuild- 
ing of another? Mind, I say towers; for a ruin with- 
out a tower is to be tolerated, but scarcely approved. 

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This afternoon being not exactly rainy, but only 
threatening, I think it best for us to turn at once to 
the Elizabethenpforte, the gate of welcome built by 
the Elector Frederick V., when he brought home Eliz- 
abeth, James I. of England's daughter, as his 
bride. If one has the patience for a single bit of his- 
tory, that episode is among the most interesting; for 
this couple reigned for a brief year as king and 
queen of Bohemia ; and from them was descended the 
Electress Sophia, the mother of George I. of 
England. Having admired the carvings on this gate, 
the ivy vine and darting lizards in pink stone on its 




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pillars, the arms of England and the Palatinate over- 
head, and having called up in fancy a troop of Eng- 
lish maids of honor to romp with their young mis- 
tress in the garden behind, we next enter the castle 
court by way of drawbridge and gate, look down 
into the deep well at our right, try to grasp the 
various architectural periods here presented, and 
make the following mental notes: The pillars over 
this well, brought from Charlemagne's palace at Ingel- 
heim, are the oldest thing here; the Romanesque gal- 
lery opposite us comes next in time; the Gothic door- 
way at our left, with its round, traceried window and 
carving of roses and angels, follows next; and latest 
of all come the Renaissance wings that are the most 
prominent part of the enclosing buildings, and are 
rich in sculpture. Unlike Kenilworth, this palace has 
never been entirely ruined. The rooms in the old 
Romanesque wing are the home of the caretakers, 
the great halls and chapels are in half preservation and 
a tour of the whole series can be made under the con- 
duct of a guide. Before undertaking this we make a 
careful comparison of the different fagades and try 
to tell ourselves why the Otto-Heinrichsbau, with its 
quiet, conventional decorations, its caryatid portal, 
its statues of Christian virtues and pagan gods, is 
worthy of Michael Angelo, and ranks higher than 
the Friedrichsbau, which is more heavily decorated 
and holds in its canopied niches the stalwart figures 
of rulers from Charlemagne down to Frederick IV. 
We also take account of the five towers — the clock 
tower behind us, through which we entered ; the huge 
chunk known as the Dicke Thurm, away off" at our 
left; the lofty octagonal tower and its lesser fellow 
at our right; and behind us, again, the veriest hero 
of them all— the Gesprengte Thurm, or exploded 
tower. This last refused to be shattered by that 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 




The. C^tle G/ffiirt* 

TheWell, 



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EIGHT WEEKS 



awful blast of powder from its interior, which just 
tore two huge rents from top to bottom, where deep- 
cleft windows lessened the resistance of the twenty- 
two feet of thickness, and dropped a third of the 
huge bulk unbroken into the moat. There it lies 
aslant to this day, exhibiting its bulk and its muscle, 
this prizefighter of stone and mortar; and the vines 
have trailed over it, mosses and ferns and brambles 
vie with one another in beautifying it, trees have 
sprung up on its summit; but none of those stones 
that heard the explosion of 1689 have loosened from 
their matrixes ; you can almost fancy that they are 
quivering still with the roar that must have echoed 
to the Odenwald and pealed away to the Vosges 
Mountains across the Rhine. All parts of the castle 
are done in the same pink sandstone, shading into 
reds and browns with the passing of time, and all 
take as naturally to their ivy vines as though these 
were an embroidery planned from the beginning. 

But here is a throng of tourists waiting to be shown 
the interior, and we join them with regret, because 
explanations given to twenty are always unsatisfac- 
tory, especially when given in three different lan- 
guages; and what with trying to keep us all within 
hearing distance, address us all in our mother tongues, 
and reply to those dreamy souls who come in at the 
end of every description with questions already an- 
swered, the poor guide is driven almost distracted. 
We hope that our shillings give him a good, fat sal- 
ary — for to hurry through those entrancing halls and 
gloomy corridors, up those winding stairs and down 
those steep inclines, away from those oriel-window 
landscapes — that we could not and would not do. 

I shall not attempt to give you this hour's tour in 
detail ; but there are a few darling spots where you 
must be right at our side. 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



First is this underground sculpture gallery or sol- 
diers' home, I don't know which to call it, where 
the veteran statues that have become too banged up 
by war and weather to be ornamental, or too decrepit 
to be safe, have been stored away to meditate upon 
their past glories and upon the dapper young copies 
of themselves now set up in their places. Never did 
you see such an assembly before. In the gloom of 
a cold basement, with broken pavement underfoot 
and spiderwebbed vaulting overhead, they stand jos- 
tling one another, ogling, leering, tipping, with their 
faces of red and gray — here a nose gone and there 
an ear ; a broken sword ; garbled armor ; this elector 
without a head, this prophet lacking a mouth, this 
Christian grace so weatherbeaten that you guess in 
vain between courage and humility. Oh, the dear 
old chaps ! Are they having to stand beside their 
direst enemies forever and forever? Are they mourn- 
ing for the light they never more shall see again? 
Are they rejoicing at their escape from wind and 
rain? Be proud, at least, you past numbers, that the 
modern age can do nothing better than reproduce 
your original estate for the admiration of visiting 
thousands. 

A cellar of a more cheerful type is the great wine 
vault with the two huge casks — the first to make you 
cry out: "It that the big tun? Why, that's only a 
big hogshead !" and the second to show off its im- 
mensity by contrast and tickle your fancy with the 
thought of the army of vintners who poured and 
poured and poured on the rare occasions of its fill- 
ing. This monster that lies upon its side, flanked by 
two staircases and topped with a dancing floor, is a 
queer offset to the artistic excellence of its surround- 
ings. No art here but the art of the cooper, carried to 
its extreme limit ; no beauty but the suggestion of ex- 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



haustless wine; no pride of lordship except the pride 
of bulk. And yet so triumphant was the wit of the 
cinquecento fabricator who first built a big wine tun in 
the bowels of this castle, that the centuries have de- 
manded a permanent exhibit. Number one was replaced 
in the sixteen hundreds by number two ; this again by 
number three and four, the last of which, a veteran of 
a hundred and fifty years, we gaze upon to-day; and 
so great is its reputation in the countryside that peas- 
ants coming to Heidelberg for a holiday inquire their 
way "to the Tun," and having seen its reverend bulk, 
climbed up the stairs on one side and descended the 
stairs on the other, danced a round, perhaps, on the 
platform, and patted the wooden statue of the court 
jester, Perkeo, its smirking contemporary, go away 
content, with little heed to the most beautiful ruin in 
Germany. Ruins are such a common thing — to be 
found on every hilltop. But a big wine barrel that 
holds 49,000 gallons, and has been filled, actually 
filled, more than once or twice with that which maketh 
glad the heart of man — how should that be other than 
a lifelong wonder and delight to the peasant heart ! 

And do you think that we, too, went up the stairs 
and down the stairs with a pagan veneration for bulk, 
and a new world itching for a place in the old world 
processions? Well, if the jester keeps his counsel, so 
will I mine. But this I will tell you — that among the 
rhymes and anecdotes that are specialties of our eight, 
My Lady Practical's adaptation of an old song is often 
on her lips and ours, as expressive of our daily expe- 
rience in castles and museums, cathedrals and towers : 



The King of France, with forty thousand men, 
Marched up the (hill) (stairs), and then marched 
down again. 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



A third underground bit that you must not fail of 
is the approach under the north terrace or Altan, a 
vaulted passage leading from a steep footpath up into 
the court. To see it aright you should have climbed 
the footpath, as we did not, the ivied castle wall at 
your right, the tree-grown slope dropping to the val- 
ley at your left, then a bit of mossy, broken ramparts, 
some straggling elder trees of the days of old Perkeo, 
a sentinel's tower above you, dainty as a lady's bower 
— and then the fresh coolness and dark of the low- 
browed vault, with the daylight sifting in through the 
ivy of four great window openings, and traceries 
overhead in grays and greens that delight you when 
your eyes have become accustomed to the twilight — 
mould and moss, the stalactite beginnings from 
dripping cement, and the blackened festoons of an- 
cient cobwebs. Now bring in a white-bloused wife 
with dinner-pail to ensconce herself and her good man 
in one of the window seats against the ivy green ; or 
an old woman on her cane, panting from the steep 
ascent; or a light-stepping little lad with bare feet, 
arms out at the elbows, and both hands up to the 
basket of fruit on his head — and you have a picture 
ready for your canvas. 

But, having kept you with me so long in darkness, 
I will turn you square around and lead you out upon 
the roof of this very vault, the great Altan, or bal- 
cony, where hundreds can promenade with delight, 
looking off to the hills on either side, to the town, 
the Neckar, and the gorgeous sunsets that so often 
transfigure the Rhine Valley into a valley of dreams. 
After you have committed to memory this pretty pic- 
ture of city, river and hills — oh, these unfaithful stew- 
ards, these memories to which we commit so much! 
— you may take your own time in the banqueting 
halls, the chapels, the library; may study more in 

310 



EIGHT WEEKS 



detail than we the carved chimney pieces, the deco- 
rated doorways, the mullioned windows; may climb 
the winding staircases in the towers, and examine the 
paintings, models and manuscripts of the museum. 
But we must away to the band concert, for, remem- 
ber, four days in Germany. We heard church music 
on the Sabbath, and this may be our only other occa- 
sion for music in the land of melody. 

Band concerts vary in excellence, but are generally 
not to be despised among these people who are born 
to music, educated to music, and live and die to 
music; and when, as in this case, a military band from 
another city is giving a classical programme, it is 
worth while to risk a few raindrops and listen with 
all our musical ears. Never mind those waiters; if 
you don't take kindly to beer, a cup of tea or choco- 
late will appease them. But beware of this table of 
tourists who have learned in their native land — I fear 
across the Atlantic — to use music as an accompani- 
ment to conversation. How it fidgets the director to 
hear their hum of talk and low laughter ! A bold and 
merciful woman has ventured to call the attention of 
their chaperon to the silence all around, and they 
have the good sense to say thank you, and take the 
hint. Verily, I hope they are from across the Atlantic ; 
for it is a credit to a young person or a young nation 
to be willing to learn. 

That concert was a treat, and added one more 
treasure to a day already rich. Who cares if we did 
not have time to explore the great arched terrace be- 
yond the pinery, and see the old broken river god 
lying in his pond, or the fresh, new poet Scheffel 
standing on his airy pedestal? Who cares if a little 
rain did fall upon our dusty suits and cut our prospects 
short? Aren't we travelers of sufficient calibre to 
take in a little rain with much sunshine? Should we 



3ii 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

not be thankful that the land is not to suffer drought? 
Haven't we been amazed already that our letters have 
so seldom chronicled a storm? And have we not been 
obliged to appeal more than once to My Lady Per- 
sistent for her admirable quotation from Farmer Wise- 
acres that "he had noticed how we seldom have much 
rain in a dry spell"? With all our virtuous wisdom, 
perhaps also we should be thankful that this one night 
of our sojourn here does not happen to fall on the 
date of an illumination ; for, don't you see, we are 
very tired and ought to go to bed early. But just 
supposing that some time you' should have two days 
here, or should be less tired, or more strong than we ; 
then be sure to find out, if you can, when an illumi- 
nation of the castle is to occur, and plan to see it. 
This is the way it is : 

Under the sunset light — for illumination days must 
be good and give fair weather — all the town and all 
its visitors stream out across the old bridge to estab- 
lish themselves on terraces and walls, on restaurant 
porches, on grandstands and river banks — that is, all 
except those who are making the river gay with deco- 
rated boats, colored lanterns, music and fireworks. 

Then comes a long time for gossip or naps, till 
pitch dark has blotted out every line of castle, and 
perhaps of hills ; for moonlight also must not appear 
on these occasions ; a time of waiting, too ; of striking 
matches to look at watches, and of waking up dead- 
asleep children — till, with a gasp of silence the great 
throng recognizes the flash of a signal gun and the 
boom of its discharge. All the world holds its breath 
and looks toward one spot in the blackness — and lo ! 
like the jasper walls of the heavenly city the beautiful 
vision stands before you, all its pride and all its down- 
fall jasper in flames; every statue glorified in its 
niche, every turret and pillar clear-cut against the 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



darkness; the interior of the high tower glowing like 
a fiery furnace ; a miracle, a joy, an amazement. And 
then the world begins to take breath again, to exclaim, 
to applaud ; musicians in the river boats strike into 
gala strains ; restaurants and hotels send up rockets 
— the Castle Hotel on yonder hill throws itself also 
into jasper, just to show how awkward a splendid 
modern building can look beside a ruined fortress ; 
not content with this display of its shortcomings, it 
changes to emerald ; and all the while our castle holds 
his own, tells his old, old story in flame, shows us his 
sculpture and architecture in flame, asks us another 
set of flaming questions about the old, the new, and 
the beautiful, during, perhaps, ten minutes. Then the 
glory begins to die out and is soon another of those 
burning memories that you hang in your picture gal- 
lery. 

How do they do it, so that no mechanism of lights 
appears, only the glowing result? I do not know 
what modern methods electricity may have introduced ; 
but when last I saw this grand display, some scores 
of men and boys with red lights and matches, and a 
good training in doing things on time, accomplished 
the whole miracle. And every man and boy had to 
hide behind his individual board or barrel and con- 
ceal the glowing flame of his red light, working 
merely toward the glory of the whole and the oblit- 
eration of the individual. What a lesson in flame 
to us who looked on ! Most of us have plenty of 
opportunity for self-obliteration in this world; our 
barrels are furnished to us gratis. The personal 
question to us is — "Do we manage our red lights 
well? Do we touch them off in unison when the big 
gun sounds? Do we turn them on the one statue 
that has been put in our charge?" 

To-morrow morning you must take your choice 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 

whether you will drive with part of our company 
along the Philosophenweg on the north hillside, and 
perhaps up the Neckar, where the old robber castles 
of Neckarsteinach perch upon their rocks — the Swal- 
low's Nest and his fellows — or whether you will steam 
away with the rest of us to Stuttgart on its hills, and 
combine a visit at the homes of old friends with a 
view of the Wiirttemberg capital. 

Just try to go with both parties, if you can, and 
good night. 

Yours, tired, but happy. 

M. 



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EIGHT WEEKS 



XXXVI— OLD FRIENDS IN SWABIA. 

Zurich, Wednesday Evening, August 4. 

Dear people: 

Have you with us bidden adieu to Germany 
after a long and lovely acquaintance of four 
days, and with us offered your first greetings to Swit- 
zerland, the flashing diamond of Europe? Swabia, 
the Black Forest and the Falls of the Rhine, all 
within twelve hours ; and a visit in the home of choice 
friends thrown in — is not that enough to mark an- 
other day in red? 

And you, besides all this, being gifted with the 
double sight of the absent, can also take the drive 
along the Heidelberg mountainsides with the other 
half of us, and look across once more at that rosy 
castle that we saw in burning coals through our 
imagination glass last night. A pretty full day you 
will have ; and if, in addition to your sightseeing, you 
will magnanimously offer to provide the lunch that 
will be needed in the train at supper-time, you may 
have the novel experience of some of us, of eating 
costly bread, far beyond the lot of ordinary mortals. 
For the above mentioned "some," thinking it an un- 
necessary task to haunt bakeries and fruiterers for a 
simple travelers' supper, just ordered it from the 
Heidelberg Hotel ; and when they came to pay their 
thrifty hosts, found that they were being curtailed 
the most of the day's postal-card money, and were 
being given the privilege of serving their fellow-trav- 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



elers a meal of rare superiority. Just bread and butter 
and fruit, it looked, when we passed it around at seven 
o'clock, with a bit of cheese and sausage for relish; 
but it tasted like King Midas' fare when we heard the 
price of it; and we shall pat ourselves henceforth on 
having once, at least, supped like princes. 

But here I am, hurrying on to sunset, while we 
should have still the whole day before us. 

In Heidelberg we are at the northern end of the 
Grand Duchy of Baden, which borders the Rhine on 
the east in a long, narrow strip all the way to Switzer- 
land. Mannheim, at the influx of the Neckar, was 
for a long time the residence of the electors ; but now 
the capital is Carlsruhe, an elegant little city some 
fifty miles south. Beyond this lies Baden-Baden, the 
renowned watering place, given the double title to 
distinguish it from the other Badens of Europe. Its 
lovely location in the valley of the Oos, against the 
green hills of the Schwarzwald, makes it a rival of 
Heidelberg ; and a third to these two is Freiburg, lying 
still farther south, and, like them, against a forest 
background. These three, with similar surroundings, 
have each its specialty — Heidelberg its castle, Baden- 
Baden its mineral springs, Freiburg its Gothic cathe- 
dral with the open-work spire. This last city^ how- 
ever, must not be confounded with Freiburg, or Fri- 
bourg, of Switzerland, famous for its rocks and 
bridges, and for its great organ in the Church of St 
Nicholas. 

Carlsruhe, Baden-Baden, and Freiburg we might 
have seen if we had traveled toward Switzerland along 
the eastern shore of the Rhine. If we had followed 
the west shore, crossing at Mannheim, we should 
have passed through Alsace and Lorraine, the prov- 
inces taken from France by Prussia as indemnification 
for the war of 1870; and we could have feasted our 

316 



EIGHT WEEKS 



eyes on the four towers and galleried frieze of the Ca- 
thedral of Speyer, and later have looked across the 
city's roofs to the Gothic spire of Strassburg. 

At the first of these places, Speyer, we should have 
demanded that the train stop long enough to let us 
review the fortunes of the basilica; its foundation in 
1030 by Conrad II., as a burial place for himself and 
for future emperors; its completion by his grandson, 
Henry IV., whose body lay unburied here for five 
years, awaiting the revocal of papal excommunica- 
tion ; its frequent injuries by fire ; its greater injury 
through the brutality of the "most Christian king," 
Louis XIV., whose general laid waste cathedral and 
town just after his holocaust at Heidelberg, and added 
to this injury the desecration of the royal tombs ; its 
second devastation by the French in 1794, along with 
its use as a powder magazine ; and after each of these 
disasters the slow and persistent work of masons, car- 
penters, sculptors, and decorators in restoring it to 
its original condition. 

If we could walk about it now and see its splendor 
of form and color, should we discover any intimations 
of the blackness or darkness which has overwhelmed 
it again and again? Can a building, like a person, 
rise more beautiful from a baptism as by fire? If so, 
it is because the fire-proven souls of the builders have 
held to their ideal, and from generation to generation 
have refused to see it perish from the land. 

At Speyer, too, we should remember the imperial 
diets of old, and especially that of 1537, at which the 
first Protestants protested against the condemnation 
of their doctrines. 

At Strassburg, our second cathedral town, we 
should have longed to make a closer acquaintance with 
the minster, which looks like a glorious, one-armed 
giant, and to study the development of architecture 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



shown in its transition forms from Romanesque to 
Gothic. For these styles begin to claim our recogni- 
tion, like the types we observe in families of our ac- 
quaintance; and even when intermarriages produce 
some cross types hard to classify with exactness, we 
find ourselves recognizing a Romanesque feature here 
and a Gothic feature yonder, with a good deal of 
pleasant familiarity. 

At this capital of the annexed provinces, we should 
also have looked around us eagerly for evidences of 
the mingling of the two nations ; of protest, or grudge 
or tyranny ; of a Schmitz and a La Follette in part- 
nership; asd should wonder whether under the out- 
side of smooth prosperity there were still heart-burn- 
ings and hopes of revenge. 

Well, all this eye-straining and brain-tiring of the 
two Rhine Valley roads we are saved; for we turn to 
the south and east, and, by a route afar from both 
Rhine and Neckar, and reasonably void of sights and 
memories, reach Stuttgart on its hills and plain — a 
charming combination of city and country. Stuttgart 
is the capital of Wiirttemberg — one of the four king- 
doms of Germany ; mentioned in our suit-case treatise 
of a few letters back, and still further to the east, if 
your mind's eye can skim along over Ulm with its 
mighty spire, and Augsburg, with its ancient fame 
for diets and pretty women, you would come to 
Munich, capital of Bavaria. So we are getting a grip, 
as you see, on these parts of the empire ; the scattered 
constituents of our German pack are being laid in 
order, and some day, when we have time for a good 
application of histories and atlases, we'll be able to 
reduce them to a really manageable compass. 

But now we are in Stuttgart — at least a happy part 
of us are — and the best thing in all this city is the 
sight of two German faces, full of love and faithful 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



memory, trying to focus their eyes on two other faces 
that they have not seen for years and years. And 
they knew us, and we knew them, and all the sweet 
communion of bygone times began anew just where 
it had broken off, and "How is this one ?" and "Where 
is that?" and "Does he look like his father?" and "Is 
she as handsome as in the old days?" and "All those 
boys grown up into stalwart men, to be their moth- 
er's joy?" and "Can you believe that all this time has 
gone by since we were living together in dear old 
Tubingen?" Our eyes are wet with thoughts of 
those who are gone, and our faces are smiling with a 
dream of meetings after the great journey, and of rec- 
ognition of friends long parted in old worlds and 
new. 

Stuttgart is such a perfect German city that any 
mental picture of it that we can carry away with us 
will serve as a model of the type. A capital, includ- 
ing government buildings, colleges, museums of every 
kind ; a variety of churches, old and new ; theatres, 
concert halls, beer gardens, and, of course, parks, 
parks here, there and everywhere. All this might be- 
long to any German capital ; but here Nature has done 
so much in furnishing hillsides for sightly locations, 
and numberless surrounding hills for landscape effects, 
that the "Wall Street broker" is always within quick 
reach of breezy heights, and the dweller in rural sub- 
urbs can easily slip down to the evening treats of 
theatre and concert. 

A kindly custom that prevails all over the Conti- 
nent struck us with new force here — the treatment of 
the person with whom you are doing business of any 
kind as, for the time being, a valued acquaintance. 
Our western dullness has been pretty slow in finding 
out that every transaction here begins and ends with 
a polite "Good day." "Bon jour, monsieur," "Au 

3 X 9 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



revoir, madame," "Guten Tag, Fraulein," are just as 
much in demand as money in our purses ; and they 
are to be used con amore, besides, and not flung out 
as a useless form. We have been practicing on this 
bit of human decency until we remember it three- 
fourths of the time when we enter or leave a shop, 
when we pass a maid in the hotel corridors, when the 
boots comes to our door on an errand, or when we 
buy of the fruit woman at the corner; and we have 
made a mental memorandum to the effect that we 
will continue this good habit at home. But when our 
lovely hostess on leaving the tram to-day on which 
she was taking us to her home, bade a cheery adieu 
to the conductor, I confess that we found our own 
good manners away out of sight. 

It would be interesting to know whether this phase 
of courtesy originates in the good form of the French, 
or in the good fellowship of the simpler nations. The 
same thing is found on the railway — not really to the 
extent of hindering the conductor as he punches your 
tickets, or the porter as he rushes to the rescue of 
your baggage; but as a greeting to those in the com- 
partment when 3'ou enter and a farewell on leaving 
— this last being not seldom accompanied by a "bon 
voyage" or "gluckliche Reise." It is like carrying 
flowers when you travel, a real alleviation to dust and 
heat. 

It is not often that the traveler can turn from his 
tourist point of view to that of a citizen ; but our mid- 
day visit in Stuttgart made the whole place seem fa- 
miliar, because we looked at it through our German 
friends' eyes. 

First of all, it was the enthusiasm in regard to 
Count Zeppelin, not only on account of his persistent 
determination to make himself master of the new 
highway, but because he was a man of such fine rec- 

320 



EIGHT WEEKS 



ord in peace and in war that his city loved him and 
coveted for him every success. Next, it was the king, 
his homely palace, his quiet, citizen life. Then the 
churches, and the people's devotion to them, in spite 
of their being state institutions with no particular 
claim on any particular parishioners. And then, the 
growth of the city, the elegant buildings perched by 
magic upon the precipitous hillsides. — "You see, an 
architect likes to take hold of such buildings as these ; 
to set houses on the plain — why, that's the work of 
any builder; but to pile them up, one above another, 
with winding roads and picturesque stairs, with a 
garden for every residence, and every story available 
for attractive flats — that is an achievement to make a 
man's reputation." The location of a recent park 
with special seats reserved for adults and special ter- 
races for children was also of great interest, espe- 
cially when we understood that here, as elsewhere, vol- 
untary leagues for beautifying the city were a main 
dependence, both in furnishing a regular financial 
support, and in influencing public sentiment. To us 
of the new world these groves so carefully preserved, 
these firm paths and pretty bridges through wild ra- 
vines, are a kind of marvel, which now and then we 
resent a little, as spoiling the wildness of Nature ; but 
we seldom realize that these have all come slowly in 
answer to a demand from the general crowd, from 
the young and from the frail, as well as from sturdy 
climbers; and that they have come through the co- 
operation of citizens, and that widespread cultivation 
of the beautiful that are just beginning to find them- 
selves among us. 

Can you imagine a better close for our few hours 
of knitting up old friendships and coming in touch 
with good movements, than a grand rally of our eight 
and our hostesses in the Stuttgart railway restaurant 

321 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



at a genuine German coffee drinking? Big cups, 
plenty of hot milk, fresh butter and bouncing rolls? 
What if several of us knew that coffee in the after- 
noon was disastrous to the night's rest, and several 
others feared it would spoil the evening appetite for 
the aforementioned costly supper? We drank with a 
will so long as the delay of trains allowed, and ate 
with a will ; set our two elderly matrons together to 
gaze into each other's faces and compare daughters 
in the common speech of mothers; talked up and 
down and criss-cross of that table in a glorious mix- 
ture of two languages and ten tongues, and altogether 
were the most "gemiithlich" of companies to be found 
in the Stuttgart station. 

How long the two faces beamed upon us after we 
had filled our new compartment ! What wafts of 
friendship they sent after us into the wide world and 
the long years ! Is it strange that that coffee seemed 
to have gone to our heads? That My Lady of the 
Veil fell to telling her raciest stories, My Lady Bright 
Eyes to discovering innumerable sources of amuse- 
ment, My Lady Practical to reciting old songs, 
and we all to laughing and rejoicing in a way to 
amaze our neighbors before and behind? 

We were traveling down through old Swabia 
among conical, rocky hills crowned, every one, with 
a ruined castle. We were searching our guide books 
to learn whether we were passing through Reutlingen, 
Tubingen, Hechingen, Balingen, Ebingen, Sigmarin- 
gen, or only through Horb and Tuttlingen, Immendin- 
gen and Singen. We were reminding one another of 
Hohenstauffens and Hohenzollerns, of Frederick Red- 
beard and Eberhard the Bearded ; of the famous 
"Swabian Stroke" which was a euphemism for a 
piece of stupidity until a bold Swabian in the Cru- 
sades cleft a Turk right down the middle with a 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



double-handed stroke of his sword, and gave a new 
meaning to the term from thenceforth. And grad- 
ually we wound away from the swelling meadows, 
the vine and hop-covered hillsides, the close-packed 
villages, to a region of mountains and woods, of 
bolder green slopes and laughing brooks, a region of 
remoteness and solitude that turned our laughter to 
admiration, and made our costly bread seem none 
too good for such surroundings. 

This was the beautiful Black Forest — not the very 
depths of it, where crowds of bicyclists push in to 
see the simple life and to teach it how fast the out- 
side wheels go round; not the part of Fairyland 
where the houses and barns combine under one out- 
stretching roof that pulls its broad-brimmed hat down 
over its forehead, and where window joins to win- 
dow, a-peeping at the train that rushes by. No, we 
might not see the whole beauty of it in one after- 
noon's journey, nor talk with the cunning artificers 
who make cuckoo clocks and wooden toys and blown 
glass. For the wild ravines and waterfalls we should 
have needed to push into Triberg and Harnberg and 
Wekrathal, to Todtnau and Todtmaus, and like un- 
canny places. But we got the piney breath of the 
Schwarzwald, and the lights and shadows that jus- 
tify its name ; and we left it at Singen, where the 
great rock of Hohentwiel lifted its shoulder against 
the sky and called up to us Scheffel's delightful story 
of the pretty widow and her monkish tutor in the 
days of the great Hunnenschlacht, when the vast 
ruins you can now guess at against the sky were an 
impregnable castle. If you have a taste for some- 
thing choice in German, read Scheffel's Ekkehard, a 
historical tale of the tenth century. 

St. Nepomuk used to keep guard in stone at one 
end of the arched bridge; but where is he now? No 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



one has cared to replace his crumbling limbs with a 
fresh carving, as in the case of the guardians of 
Heidelberg castle. Alas for the saints and the cruci- 
fixes ! When they disappear from crossroads and 
bridges there is no simple faith to demand their return. 
Will our aesthetic sense come to the rescue some day, 
while our faith, not quite dead, if less simple, turns 
its efforts to hospitals and schools and playgrounds ? 

The sun is almost down, but not too soon to give us 
a flashing view of the Rhinefall. Here it is, swinging 
full into sight, and our train moving slowly at the 
right point for the display of the whole magnificent 
spectacle — malachite and marble rushing, plunging 
over the dividing rocks; toying, leaping, just for the 
joy of life, a tinge of the sunset pink upon them. 
Beautiful river, among the cliffs and trees, bounding 
in gladness down to the toils of life! 

We come on to Zurich in twilight hours, and to- 
morrow begin our four long and lovely days among 
the Alps. 

Good night — and sleep to the sound of waters with 
visions of woods and cataracts. 

Sincerely, 

M. 



324 



EIGHT WEEKS 



PART VI— SWITZERLAND. 



XXXVII— ON LAKE THUN. 

Interlaken, Thursday Evening, August 5. 

Good people all: 

Can you read the above heading without the 
conventional thrill, either of desire or of happy 
memory ? As for me, I can't look at it, here 
in my dark room, with the most remote of elec- 
tric lights glimmering down on my page, without a 
rush of questioning voices in my ears — Can this be I ? 
And am I in the little city between the lakes ? Is that 
great sweep of the Bernese Oberland spread out be- 
yond these hotel walls? Is that huge cliff of Harder 
towering up, up, up behind these roofs, threatening 
to fall upon me, daring me to take wing and fly to 
its glowing restaurant lights? I think I'll drop my 
halting pen right here and step out for the tenth 
time on our tiny balcony — blessed balcony ! — to see 
whether she is still there, the queenly Jungf rau, veiled 
in gray for the night, with a silver brooch where the 
moonlight falls upon her. 

Well, that is the way of it. Such sights are too 
great for us. They make us turn our instructive sen- 
tences into exclamations, reverse the natural order of 
our narrative, and drain our bottle of red ink dry 
in checking off our high days. 

Now I lay restraint upon myself and go back to 
the beginning of the day's achievements. I even dis- 
cipline myself by introducing a little course of geog- 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



raphy ; and if you and you don't need such discipline, 
just skip it at discretion. 

It is possible to wander all over Switzerland by 
rail, by diligence, or on foot, crossing passes and sail- 
ing lakes, without having any clear idea of the lay 
of the land. I know this, for I have done it. And I 
know, too, that, however full one's soul is of inspira- 
tions lofty, one's mind keeps up an annoying interro- 
gation of, "Where are you, any way? Are you fol- 
lowing this river up or down? Where does this 
proposed pass take you? Are you going around in 
a circle, or are you on your way to somewhere?" If 
you have no wholesome fear of your mind and its 
impertinences, go on neglecting your map ; follow your 
leader and be happy. But as for me, I intend at the 
outset of these four days to look Switzerland right 
in the face, with an eye to her various features, to 
trace the principal rivers, learn the general water- 
sheds, and find out what passes lead whence and 
whither. You need not fear to follow me, for it will 
necessarily be a short operation. 

In my mind's eye I can see the map of this country 
like an egg, or a diamond, but very ragged at the 
edges, especially along the south. Or, I clench my 
right hand, lay it down with my thumb resting on 
this paper, and I have a pretty good suggestion of 
the little country. My thumb represents the great 
range of the Italian Alps, with Monte Rosa as the 
highest peak. Between my thumb and forefinger runs 
the River Rhone, on its way to Lake Geneva, above 
my thumb-nail. My forefinger, where it lies against 
my thumb, is the great Bernese Oberland, with the 
Jungfrau as its queen. (Excuse a pause right here, 
to see if she is still there in the frame of the nearer 
hills.) Above that forefinger lie the two little lakes 
between which we are established; and off to the 

328 



EIGHT WEEKS 



right, and up toward the big knuckles are all the 
lesser mountains, and the lakes and rivers that flow 
into the Rhine. For somewhere on the back of your 
hand lies the Lake of Constance, which is to the 
Rhine what the Lake of Geneva is to the Rhone. The 
two rivers have their rise about in the centre of the 
country. The Rhone turns west, widens out into 
Lake Geneva just on the border, flows on into France, 
then, at the City of Lyons, changes its mind entirely, 
and starts due south for the Mediterranean. The 
Rhine, from almost the same starting point, winds 
east and north to the northeast corner of the country, 
widens out into Lake Constance, flows west for a lit- 
tle way, gathering up all the drainage of the northern 
slopes, then sets its face due north for the far-away 
German Ocean. Just about in the centre of Switzer- 
land, a little northeast of our present location, lies 
the Lake of Lucerne, or Lake of the Four Forest Can- 
tons — a kind of a letter Z gone wild, so that in sailing 
through it you constantly fancy it corning to an end, 
only to find it always taking a new lease of life in a 
new direction. On it lies lovely Lucerne, and from 
it rise the isolated peaks of Rigi and Pilatus, neither 
of them high enough for eternal snows, but serving 
as splendid observation towers, with summits acces- 
sible by rail. 

Now for passes. What is a pass? And why does 
the tourist introduce as many passes as possible into 
his itinerary? A pass is a depression between peaks, 
giving an opportunity for a road to pass over it. In 
a country ridged with mountains it is often a ques- 
tion how to communicate between valleys that lie 
quite near to one another. It is. of course, easier to 
go over the depression than over the peaks ; and in 
reaching these lower levels, or saddles, you find that 
the mountain streams are flowing down the valley, that 

329 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

you are climbing up, and that your road is beside a 
series of wild gorges and cataracts. All the way you 
are having choice mountain scenery, both that of 
nearby slopes and ravines and that of the summits that 
rise in changing groups before you and behind. But 
when you reach your pass, and see a vast new land- 
scape spread out before you while your near moun- 
tains still tower on either side, your heart leaps up 
like that of "stout Cortez on a peak of Darien" ; and 
you make up your mind then and there to cross as 
many passes as time, purse and sole leather will 
permit. 

Switzerland can furnish you some dozen passes on 
her southern boundary alone, and many more con- 
necting her own valleys. Some of these passes are 
crossed by railways, others by admirable diligence 
roads, others only by bridle paths. Almost any one 
furnishes a variety of tunnels, of shelters against land 
and snowslides, and of heavy parapets at precipitous 
points. Most of them begin among villages, gardens 
and vineyards ; then rise to forest altitudes, to Alpine 
pastures, and last to scanty grass and bare rock. Some 
lead you near to glaciers and everlasting snows, oth- 
ers surprise you with a broad plateau or sluggish lake 
spread flat upon their summit. Some have been 
pierced by long tunnels, as the Simplon and Mont 
Cenis, so that you have a choice of driving for half a 
day through the wildest scenery or of riding for 
twenty minutes through Egyptian darkness. 

To this geography of Switzerland I have added 
these facts : That the confederation consists of twen- 
ty-two cantons, as independent and interdependent as 
our United States, and that, in general, those cantons 
which send their waters to the Rhine are German in 
speech and manners; those that drain toward the 
Rhone are French. 

330 



EIGHT WEEKS 



Now for an orderly account of the day. We ex- 
plored the lovely city of Zurich this morning, climbed 
to the University Terrace, walked along the quays 
by Zurich Lake, tried to discern through a heavy at- 
mosphere the line of shining peaks that should have 
glorified our horizon, admired laces and silks and 
embroidered handkerchiefs in the shop windows, and 
then took train for Interlaken. 

A beautiful country we passed through, with noth- 
ing that specifically said to us, Switzerland; for it is 
the remote villages of the higher regions that fur- 
nish broad-eaved chalets for the artist's brush ; and it 
is only in a clear atmosphere that one can expect fre- 
quent glimpses of snow-covered peaks. As we had 
planned to enjoy the loveliness of Lake Lucerne on 
the Sabbath, we swung around it to the north and 
west, passing Berne and all its bears and Ogre-foun- 
tains without stopping, and reached the northern ex- 
tremity of Lake Thun a little before sunset. 

And now that this has been a day of loveliness on 
every side, with once or twice a showing of white 
away off on the horizon, are we to be disappointed as 
we approach the grandeur to which our hearts have 
been rising? Will the great monarchs hide them- 
selves from sight, or sink down, down from the height 
where we have set them? 

Here is the little steamboat ready for us, and the 
water is already turning to pearl and lapis lazuli ; 
the bordering hills are of hues shading away from 
blue green, close at hand, to cloud-like splendor in 
the distance ; they come stepping down to us in a 
stately minuet, every new attitude so ravishing that 
we long to fix it in its place — new vistas opening be- 
fore our silent crowd in the prow, new charms of 
farewell beckoning to those in the stern — and every 
participant in this marvelous ceremony clothed in the 

331 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

colors of precious stones, as for a festival. And yet, 
between the advancing and receding wharves at which 
our steamer stops, between shadowy ravines and fan- 
tastic summits, between the villas and hotels and gar- 
dens and groves, our eyes are always scanning the 
horizon before us, and we are virtuously saying to 
ourselves : "Remember that the air has been pretty 
thick to-day, and that the very mists which give you 
these opalescent foregrounds may shut off the Jung- 
frau entirely. Don't expect too much. After all this 
display for your benefit, what if the Prima Donna 
should refuse her special performance? If she veils 
herself to-night, watch for her to-morrow." Where- 
upon, as the lake narrows to the canal that is to bring 
us to Interlaken, and our watches say that we are 
almost there, of a sudden, at our right, what is it that 
makes My Lady of the Guide Book cry : "Look, look !" 
loud out before all the people at the prow, so that 
they obey her, follow her eyes and hand, transfixed 
in a great stare at that vast pyramid of red gold that 
has flashed out between the opal hills? 

Now do you wonder that the red ink is running 
low? 

Interlaken has lost the simplicity of a little village 
lying amazed before the great mountain. It has 
changed into a summer resort of the first rank, hotels 
outbidding one another in excellence of location and 
luxuriousness of appointments ; shop windows to drive 
the connoisseur wild and turn the eyes of the tyro 
green ; parks and parklets with tropical palms front- 
ing the eternal snows ; concert halls radiating music ; 
kursaals exploding fireworks ; and away on high, 
emulating the stars, two burning electric lights which 
I have already mentioned as belonging to the restau- 
rant on the giant cliffs to our rear. 

All this we have seen to-night, and we feel as 

332 



EIGHT WEEKS 



though Switzerland were already a friend, a posses- 
sion, a thing to carry always with us, a thing of 
which to say, "Mine," even though we should part 
to-morrow. 

One more look from the balcony, and good-night. 
I wish you no better visions than a review of our 
sunset hours. 

M. 



333 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



XXXVIII— INTERLAKEN. 




Jnterlakov' 



xfc/ucAd££ , CA-*^3> 6 



Dear stay-at-homes: 

You who sleep six nights in a place, a 
fortnight, a month — ten months — how can I ex- 
plain to you the feeling of leisure and content 
that steals over us when we are able to date our let- 
ters for two days running from the same hotel ? To 
be sure, this is not an unheard-of experience for us; 
but the opposite one of remembering that we "tarry 
but a night" begins to seem like the normal state of 
this transitory world ; and when we are able to unfold 
our rosebud suit-cases a little, by reason of a two- 
night exception, we take a long, deep breath of com- 
fort, call our hostelry our home, take possession of 
the whole town, and fancy that we shall never forget 
its every detail. 

Thus it is in Interlaken. We have time to burn. At 
least you will think so when I tell you that we have 
all been shopping, or, more exactly, shop-windowing, 
several times over. Of course, you suppose, after my 
last evening's enthusiasms, that we have spent all of 

334 



EIGHT WEEKS 



the day with clasped hands in front of the Jungfrau; 
but, alas for the little cup of human bliss ! it gets full 
so soon, and frightens one with its spilling, and then 
one has to drink it off as one is able and let it fill 
again at its leisure. 

We had a preconceived notion that after London 
and Paris the simple grandeur of Switzerland would 
be most restful. And so it is, in a way. The rush 
and roar are gone, the hurrying to a dozen sights a 
day, the crowding of the mind -with no end of his- 
tories and no limit of art treasures. But in another 
way, grandeur itself is tiring; and these shopkeepers 
have, perhaps, builded better than they knew for us, 
the travelers, when they thought only to build for 
themselves. You stretch your aesthetic sense to its 
utmost, reaching out to yon dazzling pyramid — and 
then you swing it neatly around upon a hand-wrought 
silver chain. It is the same sense, but it has suffered 
a wonderful relaxation in this change of objects. 
From precipices awful and waterfalls sublime you 
suffer a shameful and wholesome fall to carved bears 
and salad spoons. From a rhapsody of color spread 
over the whole circle of the horizon, you turn with a 
long breath to handkerchiefs and laces, and the finer 
and tinier the designs, the more the works of the 
artificer appeal to you. 

My Lady of the Veil, just risen from a delicious 
breakfast among flowers and window landscapes, ex- 
claims : "What ! shop windows before going up to 
Miirren ! You would stoop to mundane vanities as 
a preliminary to communion with the gods !" Where- 
upon we all look shamefaced, as we are wont to do 
when My Lady V. sets up a standard higher than 
the average; and then we all fall to making excuses. 
"But don't you think," gently protests My Lady of 
the Star, "that scarfs and laces were woven for the 

335 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



adornment of the masterpiece of the Great Creator? 
And when masterpieces buy them and wear them, are 
they not transferring the diaphanous tints of the 
Jungfrau to her superior, and outranking sisters?" 

At this we lift up our faces once more, and clap 
our hands stealthily. "And .my opinion is," says My 
Lady Bright Eyes, "that some of our friends at home 
will not be grieved to see these masterpieces improved 
in their outward adornment." (Continued, but more 
stealthy, applause.) My Lady Practical and My Lady 
in Blue opine that silver chains and coral brooches 
will make acceptable gifts, cheap, pretty, and easily 
packed ; against which view there is. nothing to be 
said. My Lady Persistent considers that models of 
chalets and carved chamois are a means of instruction 
to our friends. My Lady of the Guide Book feels 
that we owe it to the shops, which make such a phe- 
nomenal part of the show, to express our apprecia- 
tion of their cunning handiwork ; and My Lady in 
Green, being mathematical, makes a rough estimate 
of the number of square inches in one of those win- 
dows which our united purses might buy out. Where- 
upon we are unable to decide which side of the argu- 
ment she holds, and she and the instigator of the 
whole discussion lead the van in the window proces- 
sion. 

Carved bears and chamois and cows, carved bread- 
trays and salad forks, carved tables and cabinets, 
carved picture frames and boxes, card cases and 
thimble cases ; edelweis in wood, in ivory, and in sil- 
ver; Alpine roses in enamel, in mosaic, in precious 
stones ; brooches in chased gold, in burned copper, in 
fretted silver ; clasp pins set with turquoises and opals, 
with emeralds and lapis lazuli, Avith amethysts and 
garnets ; belt clasps, bracelets, necklaces, watch chains, 
fan chains, and chains for lorgnettes; tortoise shell 

336 



EIGHT WEEKS 



in every form from the unwrought back of the sea- 
turtle himself to open-work fans and side combs and 
berrets; up and down the windows, across and aslant 
the panes, temptingly near to the glass, those rows of 
pearl and diamond studs ; temptingly out of reach 
those rainbow crystals from the Jungfrau's own 
bosom ! "Oh, do go on to the photographs — in black 
and white, in sepia, in colors; to the old engravings 
and choice editions of books !" — "No, to the Swiss 
silks in stripes and dots and changing hues ; to the 
crepy gowns and dazzling boleros across the street." 
"Never mind the hats and coats and neckties, they 
are not for us; we will not squeeze even an eye's 
glance out of them; but the gloves next door, kids 
and chamois and silk ; those dainty mitts, just like our 
grandmothers'; and dancing slippers and walking 
boots ; canes, too, for old and young, for gay and 
sober, with chamois horns atop and strong spikes be- 
low ; umbrellas green and white and black ; parasols 
in laces, creamy or dusk ; jets ; we had almost passed 
those jets unnoticed! And here they begin all over 
again, carvings and jewels and stuffs; and by this 
time we are ready to turn once more to restful Nature 
and follow my leader to the station, where we shall 
take train for Lauterbrunnen and Miirren. 

What is the state of your geographical sense at 
present? Can you tell where you are and which way 
you are looking? Well, when we turn our backs to 
the two lovely lakes of Thun and Brienz, stretching 
to right and left, to the little winding river connecting 
them and trailing by the rear of our town, and to the 
huge Harder cliff rising sheer behind it, we are look- 
ing a little east of south directly at the Jungfrau, the 
crowning peak of the Bernese Oberland. It is the 
Lauterbrunnen valley that opens before us, and if it 
were not for those grand foreground hills on either 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



side, we could see the Monch and Eiger at the left, 
followed by a dozen shining "Horner" of various ap- 
pellations, and at the right as many more, all rising 
into the altitude of perpetual snow. 

You may remember that at the equator the snow- 
line begins at 15,000 feet — about the height of Mont 
Blanc, the loftiest of the Alps ; but in this latitude it 
descends much lower, to about 12,000 feet; therefore 
the Jungfrau, nearly 14,000 feet in height, has her 
head and shoulders always veiled in white. But in 
late summer, when sun and rain have been doing their 
utmost to disfigure her, the veil sometimes has a 
seamed and worse-for-wear look, as though it needed 
a bleaching, so they say ; but we can hardly believe 
it, so immaculate and even dazzling is its appearance 
at present. 

Up this valley, then, where we take our way, is 
the approach to these giants, the Lutschen valley on 
the fork to the left leading to Grindelwald and the 
Little Scheidegg Pass beyond ; the Lauterbrunnen tak- 
ing you to the Staubbach waterfall. Here you have 
a choice of railways, both of them scaling mountains 
that seem unapproachable — that on the left to lofty 
Wengen, and, with the help of tunnels and lifts, up the 
Jungfrau itself; that on the right to Miirren, on the 
top of yonder precipice. One day in Interlaken, and 
which of these excursions to choose? Grindelwald is 
one of the cosiest, chalet-filled, herd-bell-tinkling vil- 
lages in the Alps, with a couple of glaciers of its own 
close at hand, and every now and then the attraction 
of some conference of sages or saints, who bring the 
highlands of their thoughts and hopes to these shining 
highlands of Nature. Shops? Oh, yes, plenty of 
shops, too, and hotels many, but not quite so all-de- 
vouring as those of Interlaken. Three snow peaks 



EIGHT WEEKS 



would rise in front of you there — the Eiger, the 
Schreckhorn, and the Wetterhorn ; and if you went 
near the slopes of these mountains you would be on 
the watch for distant avalanches. I say distant, be- 
cause great care is taken to build the roads out of 
danger's way. An avalanche at a short remove is 
hardly to be desired; but a few miles away, to catch 
sight of a falling line of white, followed after a few 
seconds by a low rumble of thunder, is a thing to 
make one's imagination tingle. 

But suppose that, instead of following the Black 
Liitchine, with its topaz waters, you choose the opal 
of the White Liitschine in the Lauterbrunnen valley, 
then you are again among chalets of mahogany tim- 
bers with broad roofs weighted with stones, every 
changing view a gem of landscape; and you realize 
the meaning of the name — nothing but brooks — as 
you watch from both sides of your observation car 
for the abounding waters bursting from ravines, leap- 
ing down precipices, dancing over mosses and ferns. 
At the village of Lauterbrunnen you reach the most 
daring of them all, the Staubbach, which makes one 
headlong drop over a precipice of almost a thousand 
feet, and, as its name implies, turns to spray before 
reaching the bottom. It is somewhat the fashion at 
present to belittle this fall because its volume is not 
great, and to compare it disadvantageously with 
neighboring cataracts that foam and rumble. But 
how belittle a leap of a thousand feet? How find 
other than fascinating this silver scarf that sways and 
trembles, and never fails against the stern black wall ? 
Every cascade of the valley has its individual charm, 
and not one can say a slighting word of another. But 
when a new marvel is said to outshine an old one, it 
is well to remember that scenery is a valuable asset \ 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



among these thrifty republicans, and that the man 
who owns a waterfall has more reasons than love for 
his kind for exploiting it. 

While looking up at this Staubbach cliff we may 
as well use it as a tape-measure for future altitudes. 
One thousand feet; keep that to lay off against the 
Jungfrau, or lesser heights. We shall be going up 
Miirren soon; that will be some 3,000 feet above our 
present point — three times this precipice. A few 
measuring-sticks of this kind are most useful. Just 
recall your arithmetic days and say to yourself — 5,280 
feet, that is one mile; and when you know that the 
Jungfrau is two and a half miles high, call up some 
familiar distance of that length — the drive to Smith- 
ville or to the new Country Club — and then, by sheer 
force of will, lift that two and a half miles on end 
until you feel the height of this snowy maiden. Of 
course, that is reckoned from the sea level, and for 
many points in a mountainous country there are two 
or three thousand feet of the average altitude to de- 
duct, as here, at Lauterbrunnen, where one must take 
off nearly three thousand feet. 

One reason why I stop you right here, at this allur- 
ing point to fuss with measuring tapes is that the Alps 
have a way of rising so precipitously before us, quite 
unlike many of our own mountains which lift them- 
selves by slow degrees, first in plateaus, then in foot- 
hills, and last of all by bounding heights — that they, 
the Alps, cheat us into believing them merely big 
rocks. That is especially true of those which, like the 
black Monk now before us, are so steep as to retain 
but little snow, or, like Pilatus by the Lake of Lucerne, 
do not rise quite to the snow point. 

Candor obliges me to confess that we eight women 
had no time this morning for these mathematical 
diversions. W T e followed the crowd from the Lauter- 



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EIGHT WEEKS 



brunnen station as fast as ever we could up a steep 
and winding road, giving the go-by to innumerable 
weavers of lace sitting at little tables by the wayside, 
and to countless venders of carved work in their shop 
doors, all of whom smiled on us serenely, knowing 
that on our return we would be flies for their spider's 
web. 

Here is the funicular awaiting us ; and shall we 
choose the lower compartment, where we can look 
back at the retreating valley, or the front, where we 
may catch glimpses of green heights above? or shall 
we beg standing room beside the conductor, and watch 
the rolling of that great cable over the little wheels 
in the track, winding us up and up and up, almost as 
steep a path as that which the waterfalls leap down? 
In either case we have an exhilarating feeling com- 
pounded somehow of awe and exultation ; for never 
in our lives before have we emulated the lark to this 
extent. A rather cumbersome, iron-clad bird, this ; 
but steadily it rises higher and higher, till now we 
have reached a point above the Eiffel Tower, and are 
not yet half way there. See how many treetops we 
have left behind us in these few minutes ! Can't you 
imagine the barometer dropping as it did in the great 
Parisian lift? Now we feel as though we were be- 
ginning to be neighbors of the peaks at our back — as 
though we were friends of the eagle and the chamois. 
And now we are thankful that our bird has sinews 
of steel, and that we are set down safe and happy 
upon the great shelf of the mountain. Here a more 
horizontal electric road receives us and speeds us 
along between the flowery meadows and brook-tra- 
versed woods at our right and the great gulf at our 
left, with the snow giants beyond. In and out among 
these perilous ravines we wind, but always safely on 
our narrow ledge, and attended by a perfect carriage 

34i 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



road beside us that seems to say : "All right ! Just 
as safe as though you were in the valley !" 

Now certain of us had been saying with great sat- 
isfaction that there would be three full hours at Miir- 
ren in which to sit down and admire such a pano- 
rama as we had never seen before, and might never 
see again. We would find out every peak by name, 
and lay up one more splendid negative in that mental 
receptacle from which we shall bring forth picture- 
making stuff for years to come. But "varium et 
mutabile semper" — no sooner had My Lady Bright 
Eyes begun to scan the flowery fields, and My Lady 
of the Star begun to realize what it meant to be in 
the very lap of Queen Flora, than there began to be 
a buzz of enquiry as to the time required to walk 
three miles on a good road down grade, as to the pos- 
sible hour of lunch in Miirren hotels, as to the nearest 
restaurant, and the possibility of making the mid- 
day meal a quick and simple one. 

The sequel you can guess. We seized the double 
gains of a divided party. The lunch upon the hotel 
veranda would ordinarily have been voted excellent, 
but we gave it little heed, for sheer wonder that we 
were there, face to face with those great gods. We 
talked in ordinary speech, but we felt like dwellers 
on the heights. Ganymede had been true to his 
word ; we had asked for Fairyland, but he had set us 
on Olympus. 

Then three-fourths of us turned our backs on that 
glorious spot as quickly as ever we could, and began 
our flowery pilgrimage through fields beyond descrip- 
tion for number, variety and brilliancy of blossoms; 
every known and loved wild thing, from daisies to 
anemones, harebells to pinks, and a dozen that we 
could not name — six great nosegays growing as we 
went ; bits of forest for shade, hemlocks and firs and 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



beeches ; babbling brooks on their way to the great 
leap that should turn them into waterfalls ; a tinkling 
of cowbells on higher slopes; an occasional pedestrian 
climbing up where we were speeding down ; mossy 
couches for rest ; rustic bridges for delight ; and al- 
ways, at every point, over our right shoulder, those 
shining miracles against the blue. 




&&M_, YYlowJjl,, awcLVm^^JUc 



The rest of us explored the little village of Miirren 
beyond the hotels, its pretty timber cottages, its gar- 
dens, its church ; the kindly, thrifty people with laces 
for sale ; even little girls and boys beside the road 
shifting their bobbins skillfully from pin to pin upon 
their cushions ; carved work, too, and picture postals, 
of course. Such a far-away, simple hamlet on the 
sides of Olympus ! Then we, the second party, took 
the electric road back past all the ungathered flowers, 
and met our other fraction at the funicular station. 
By the great steel bird we all came safely down 
to a world that had seemed wildly picturesque before 
we had seen a wilder, and fell into the hands of the 
expectant spiders, or spinners above mentioned. We 
sat by Swiss roadsides to feast on Swiss plums, and 

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returned by sunset lights to this hospitable hotel. And 
now, I dare say, we shall gaze in at shop windows as 
a toner-down of our exalted state, and return quite 
safely to ordinary levels in the counting of our laun- 
dry and the packing of our grips. 

One should not leave a place of such hotel homes 
as these without paying a tribute to the kindly atten- 
tions of waiters and porters, the readiness of laun- 
dresses to hurry work for hurried travelers, and the 
general cleanliness and comfort that makes one's inn 
a pleasant thing to remember. 

Does it ever come upon you overwhelmingly how 
many people are at work in anticipation of your com- 
ing, to tidy your room and smooth your bed, to cook 
your meals and be ready to handle your baggage ? 

A great world, this, not only in its mountains, but 
also in its traveling comforts, and in its shopkeeper 
temptations. 

A good night to you all, from your tired and 
amazed traveler. 

M. 



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XXXIX— A CUL DE SAC. 

Interlaken, Saturday, August 7. 

Good people: 

It is just for my own satisfaction that I am 
dating a third letter from Interlaken. We shall 
enter our omnibus in about an hour, to drive to 
the steamboat landing on Lake Brienz, and I will in 
the meantime forego shops and make a beginning on 
our interesting escape from this tangle of mountains. 
You see, in sailing hither through the Lake of Thun, 
we were deliberately entering the Bernese trap as "Ro- 
land to the Dark Tower came." From it there is no 
natural escape except by retracing our steps. If we 
follow the little River Aare in our rear to the twin 
Lake of Brienz, we are advancing still farther into 
the cul de sac. If we take the route of the Liitschine 
in front of us, we seem to escape, only to be gradually 
rising against a wall of ice. Undoubtedly we are at 
last booked for a pass, and which shall it be? To go 
over into the Rhone valley south of us we shall take 
either the Gemmi, past Lauterbrunnen and Kander- 
steg, at our right ; or the Grimsel, past Grindelwald 
and the Scheidegg, at our left. Both are bridle-paths, 
climbing and zigzagging at a greater angle than the 
diligence roads, and showing an occasional cut-off 
steeper still, reserved for pedestrians. We are beyond 
the help of carriages or motor cars. What are the 
rival attractions of these two passes? By the Gemmi 
Pass we should slowly climb to one of those solemn 
mountain-top lakes I have spoken of with gravelly 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



shores and rocky guardian peaks — a genuine roof of 
the world, with slates and cistern ; then, at an altitude 
of nearly 8,000 feet, we should greet the outspread 
valley of the Rhone with the shining range of the 
Italian Alps on its further side, and after that we 
should drop down by paths cut in the face of a preci- 
pice to Leuk Baths at our foot, where we might float 
around in steaming pools with all the rheumatic in- 
valids to rest our weary limbs. 

By the Grimsel Pass, on the other hand, we should 
work our way gradually up through Meiringen, or 
through Grindelwald and the Great Scheidegg, with 
spruce trees, brawling brooks, and snow peaks for our 
companions. Then we should strike the roaring Aare 
— how quiet it lies in the two little lakes behind us ! — 
and follow it up between mountains of bald rock, 
where one hardly dares to look aloft at the glacier-pol- 
ished stones waiting to roll down upon one ; on and 
on, without tree or shrub or grass; rocks and the flood, 
the flood and the rocks, and one little path to bid us 
take courage. At last we should reach the scanty 
grass of the saddle on which lies the old stone hospice 
of Grimsel — how well its name becomes it! and after 
a restful lunch, and a climb of another 1,000 feet 
(7,103 above sea level) descend by rough zigzags to 
the Rhone valley, at its very head. There the Rhone 
Glacier lies slanting in its great ravine, and by its 
melting ice sets agoing the little river that is to flow 
all the way to the Mediterranean Sea. 

A third pass, the Brunig, would take us by a pic- 
turesque railroad over to Lake Lucerne, in the north- 
east ; and as we have promised to spend our Sunday 
by its waters, that is the way we go, even though we 
shall climb only to a height of some 3,200 feet. .1 will 
tell you of it before the day is over. 

M. 
34 6 



EIGHT WEEKS 



XL— SABBATH REST BY LAKE LUCERNE. 

Lucerne, Sunday, Aug. 8. 

Long suffering friends: 

Contrary to my expectations, I have given 
you a respite of more than twenty-four hours ; 
and contrary to yours, I am not preparing to 
open before you another mountain panorama. Na- 
ture, aware that my adjectives were running low, 
and your powers of endurance, has mercifully 
drawn a gossamer veil over this renowned landscape. 
She has not obliterated outlines, nor rendered it impos- 
sible for me to continue my illustrated geographical 
treatises if I wish ; but she has just said to us, — "To- 
day is your Sabbath of rest ; there is not one upland 
vision for your bodily eyes to feast upon ; let your spir- 
its look up to the heights instead, the heights that shine 
on rainy days — the glorified summits that rise above 
these clogging fogs. Take your memory glass, your 
thanksgiving glass, and your field-glasses of faith, 
and look to those Delectable Mountains and Beulah 
Lands that are always within range." 

And so we have been doing as we rested in our 
comfortable lodgings, and strolled along the lake-side 
promenade. The immense throng, taking their Sun- 
day pleasure, jostled us without a thought of any- 
thing unusual in our attitude ; they never divined 
peripatetic astronomers taking observations as they 
walked. 

To go back to yesterday morning. The air had 

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already begun to thicken before we set sail on Lake 
Brienz, so that we had a striking illustration of the 
effect of atmosphere on landscape. This and Lake 
Thun are rivals in beauty ; but our views of Thursday 
afternoon and Saturday morning were not to be com- 
pared. We tried to make this what the other had 
been, and were mortified at our feeble powers. The 
Giesbach Fall, however, that leaps down into the lake 
near its eastern end, and splashes away a long story 
about the six other leaps it has taken in the tree cov- 
ered gorges behind it, is a feature that Lake Thun 
cannot furnish. The entire descent equals that of the 
Staubbach, and we long to stop over and explore its 
loveliness. 

Our railroad journey takes us past Meiringen in its 
snow-bounded glacier-bounded valley — one of the 
gems of the Oberland with abundant ravines and 
waterfalls ; then criss-cross the Hausenbach and 
Kehlbach, and Grassbach (bach is a brook every 
time), and can't you hear their waters rush and dash? 
past Briinig Pass and Briinig Thai ; through tunnels, 
many high walled cuttings ; past Sarner See and Sar- 
ner Au — all pretty words to tell of vale and lake and 
meadows — and then down through Alpnach Dorf, 
Alpnachstadt, and Hergiswil to Lucerne, which gives 
its name also to the lake and to the canton. 

We are now in the William Tell region, which 
means to the laity the region of the great conspiracy 
for independence at the beginning of the fourteenth 
century. The conspiring cantons of Schwitz, Uri, 
and Unterwalden lie along the eastern and southern 
shores of the lake, while that of Lucerne, on the north 
and west, shows at Kiissnach the ruined castle of the 
tyrant Gessler — the immediate object of their hate. 
Doffing our hats to the great authorities, we humbly 
acknowledge that the whole Wilhelm Tell episode, 

348 



EIGHT WEEKS 

with the thirty-three heroes who took the pledge at 
the midnight meeting in Riitli Forest, and proceeded 
to drive out the Austrian governors and demolish 
their strongholds, may belong to legend rather than 
history. But legend does not spring into being with- 
out some foundation in truth ; and ruined castles are 
graphic recorders of tyranny overthrown. If Schiller 
did not give us history pure and simple in his classic 
drama, he gave us an ideal picture that to our heart 
of hearts tells more of truth than anything we can 
ourselves reconstruct from authenticated annals. 
These sturdy mountaineers resolved to maintain their 
freedom against the envy of princes and emperors, 
and by slow degrees they won for themselves that 
place among the nations that can be compared to 
nothing else than the steadfastness of their everlast- 
ing hills. 

Our Saturday afternoon gave us time to explore 
some quaint parts of this city that is, alas ! turning all 
too fast into a fashionable congeries of hotels and 
promenades ; to cross the old covered bridges over the 
Reuss, and strain our eyes at the ancient paintings 
under their rafters ; and to visit the Lion of Lucerne 
and the Glacier Gardens. Both of these last are 
unique, and Nature certainly did the generous thing 
to this city when she placed a cliff" for Thornwalden's 
great sculpture and a lot of potholes and glacier 
markings all in close proximity to its centre. 

The Lion, noble, wounded creature, twenty-eight 
feet in length, was carved from the Danish sculptor's 
designs in 1821, to commemorate the fidelity of the 
Swiss Guard, some 800 in all, who gave their lives in 
defense of Louis XVI., and the Tuileries in August 
of 1792. The Swiss have always been famous as 
mercenary soldiers and, as in this case, have shown 
themselves faithful to their pledges. To this day it 

349 



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is a Swiss Guard to whom the Pope in the Vatican 
entrusts his safety. The bold cliff in which the lion 
is carved, descends perpendicularly to a little pool of 
water; and the splendid dignity of that death scene, 
with the vines and evergreens like funeral flowers 
about it, throws a reverent hush upon the crowds of 
tourists constantly passing. 

For fifty years this king of beasts had reigned 
supreme when a rival was discovered by some prying 
naturalist in the glacial remains of a remarkable char- 
acter close at hand. At once the thrifty Swiss began 
to develop this gift of the great Mother, and what 
was not already in situ of glacier mills and giant 
cauldrons with smooth-worn boulders ready for the 
churning in their dry hollows, they proceeded to im- 
port from similar localities, turned an artificial glacial 
stream into one of the "mills" to illustrate the rotary 
process, added models of Alpine huts, reliefs of 
mountains and glaciers, and a collection of the fauna 
of the region, and set forth the whole museum with 
such a cunning array of stone steps, winding paths, 
and rustic bridges, that the tourist is allured into it, 
whether he be in search of science or of recreation. 

This city of Lucerne, established on the steep 
shores of the lake, gives occasion for many climbing, 
twisting streets, unexpected stairways, and a certain 
mixing up of the perpendicular and horizontal, done 
in stone as if for all time, that to our western sense is 
a continual astonishment. Where we are inclined to 
reduce an uneven quarter to a level, the European 
turns it into a labyrinth of masonry, which enables one 
building to peep over another, use its roof for its own 
garden, make thoroughfares through its courts, and, in 
general, settle down to a snug century-long life of 
architectural intimacy. 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



For example, in descending from a winding hillside 
street, like a dry canal, to the Hofkirche, or Court 
Church, of St. Leodegar, we were uncertain whether 
a cloister that lay before us was a part of the church 
or of the thoroughfare, and whether the carved tomb- 
stones in the pavement, with occasional wreaths laid 
upon them, were to be admired or trodden upon. The 
old church itself, dating back to the eighth century, 
and adorned with quaint, colored carvings — "Cal- 
varys," and the like, set into the outer wall — drew us 
strongly; but we had set out to find a Scotch service 
held in a German house of worship, and turned our 
faces resolutely away from such enticements. We 
were amply repaid by the joy of worshipping in our 
own tongue, and by the additional joy of being 
greeted by old friends. Do you happen to know the 
feeling that comes upon one when welcomed in every 
possible way of courtesy by people whom one has 
never met before and will never meet again? Some- 
times it throws a flashlight on the brotherhood of 
mankind that men of alien blood and unknown tongues 
can thus lend hand to one another all around the 
globe. Sometimes it comes across one like a pall that, 
of all these crowds, not one knows me as me, nor 
would miss me if I should drop out of existence. And 
when one happens to be in the pall-like frame of 
mind, and is reasoning with oneself in the church 
pew that, after all, we aliens are not far apart if our 
prayers meet at the All-Father's throne — if then, just 
as one is expanding into a broad smile toward the 
human race in general and Scotch Presbyterians in 
particular, a gentleman stands waiting in the aisle, 
and says with outstretched hand : "Is not this My 
Lady So-and-So, whom I have known in little X 
among the Berkshires?" what kind of a smile, do 

351 



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you think, takes the place of that conventional one of 
a moment before? Wouldn't the transformation be 
a study for a portrait painter ? 

With two sets of old friends have we held converse 
on this good day. All the smiles in the weather chart 
have chased each other across our faces, and we have 
balanced in our minds the rival joys of an unexpected 
encounter and of a meeting that brought two friends 
clean over the Alps to see us. 

To-morrow we expect to take that same journey 
in reverse order, over the St. Gotthard Pass ; leave 
behind us this land of snow and ice, and make our 
first entrance into the fruitful land of Italy. From 
the high to the low, from the cold to the warm, from 
the tyrant defiers to the long-time tyrant-ridden, from 
the field to the city, from the architecture of Nature 
to the arts of man — great contrasts lie open to us ; 
and it is no small compliment to our human make-up 
that we are expected to delight in both extremes, to 
gain from both, and fellowship with both. Long live 
variety, and long live human sympathy that can em- 
brace all excellencies in its outstretched arms ! 

Our bard, who must drop into verse when feeling 
runs high, hands me these couplets to close the story 
of our five days' sojourn : 

SWITZERLAND. 

White-robed she stands, priestess among the 
nations, 

And lifts up holy hands to God on high. 
Perpetual hymns rise from her mighty organs, 
Perpetual incense floats from rocky shrines. 

Forests of costly cedars wall her courts, 

Gold-starred her roof, her pavement malachite. 
Wild goats and screaming birds dwell by her altars, 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



And simple folk dare touch her garment's hem. 
The silly world grows silent in her presence, 
And having come to wonder, kneels to pray. 

Post Scriptum. — If I am not mistaken I have so 
far made little use of my woman's privilege of post- 
scripts. In this one I want to answer some questions 
that I can imagine you as asking. 

First — Chalets; pronounced shallays. A term ap- 
plied to the broad-eaved timber buildings of the 
Swiss, whether it be the dwellings, with balconies full 
of flowers above, and cattle snugly housed under- 
neath, or the smaller structures for grain and tools 
that stand perched on poles along the hillsides. In 
both cases the timbers are of a rich, mahogany color, 
and the roofs are loaded with big stones. Picturesque 
as both these features are, they arise from the natural 
order of things. In vain have I tried to draw from 
a Swiss the confession that any of these beautiful 
browns are the result of staining or any other artistic 
treatment. It is just the sun of Switzerland burning 
through the rarified air that turns the fresh spruce 
of the mountains into mahogany ; and of this you 
can convince yourself when you see how every chalet 
faces to the south and reddens to the south — the east 
and west sides following suit to a certain extent, but 
the north turning silvery grey like our own unpainted 
buildings. 

The stones, too, on the roofs are only an econom- 
ical makeshift for shingle nails ; for in the primitive 
days shingles were axe-hewn; axe-hewn boards held 
them in place, and hillside boulders laid in regular 
order upon these last, finished the carpenter's work. 
Of late, alas ! shingle nails and machine-made shin- 
gles are attainable by all the peasants ; and even roofs 
of corrugated steel show their bold faces in many a 

353 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



place, although they have the grace to assume red 
paint in imitation of brick tiles. 

Second — Cowbells and goatbells. Most of these 
are now out of hearing; for during the summer the 
herders drive their charges to the pastures of the 
higher Alps — slopes so steep that you wonder whether 
the cattle are sharp-shod ; and there they make big 
cheeses in little mahogany lean-tos against protecting 
rocks. Every cow has her bell, big and noisy; and 
every goat a smaller one, of lighter tone. From a 
distance the sound is so pretty that you are sure you 
are in Fairyland, where all the flowers are a-tinkle 
with silver bells ; but when autumn brings a return of 
herds and flocks to the lower levels, and the door 
yards are turned over to the cow-and-goat lawn- 
mower, it is just as well for the tourist to move on, 
or buy abundant cotton for his ears. 

Third — Yodels. This melody peculiar to the moun- 
taineers, a kind of throaty warble without words, 
seems to me always to lend itself to the Swiss land- 
scape ; and whether used as a diversion or as a call, 
to outshine the ordinary songs and shouts of other 
rustics. 

Fourth — The temperature. Of course, it gradually 
lowers until you reach the snow line ; but it does not 
offer the sudden and extreme changes experienced 
along our Atlantic coast. In sheltered valleys front- 
ing the south, such is the power of the sun through 
the thin air, that even in January a summer's warmth 
often prevails at midday, and many vegetables are 
kept growing all winter long. Shelter from wind and 
exposure to sun can do almost anything, especially 
above the fogs of the valleys. It used to be the case 
that Swiss hotels had to make all their gains in two 
or three summer months ; but with the present appre- 
ciation of cold, clear air as a physical cure-all, they 

354 



EIGHT WEEKS 



are beginning to find themselves in demand all the 
year round. One after another the upland houses 
put in electric lighting and steam heat, furnish their 
beds with heavy blankets and down over-beds, select 
a level meadow to flood for a skating rink, and begin 
to advertise their winter sports. Invalids flock to 
them for new vigor; young men and maidens carry 
up to them their skis and skates ; even ordinary trav- 
elers find it worth while to provide themselves with 
hoods and mufflers, sweaters and bloomers, canes and 
curling sticks, for midwinter delights. I don't know 
what these old mountain sides think about it after 
having had things their own way for nine months of 
the year and all the years of man's residence among 
them. 

Fifth — Snow peaks in the landscape. When the 
sun shines on your side of them, they are dazzling 
white; but when it is behind them, they just show a 
soft gray like any other distant peaks. I have seen a 
whole range of Alps at sunrise, when you could not 
have distinguished them from a range of Adiron- 
dacks ; but the same mountains, a few hours later, 
were a shining sight to make one's heart leap. The 
Jungfrau, as we first saw her, was gold and silver. 
After the sun had gone down she was in gray, and 
later the fortunate ones who were not dazzling their 
eyes at the shop windows, saw her shine out for a 
brief fifteen minutes in the softest tints of pink and 
rose. 

Farewell at last, and be ready for mountains and 
tunnels to-morrow. 

M. 



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XLI— THE GREAT WHITE WALL. 

Milan, Monday, August 9. 
Beloved: 

We have crossed the great white wall that 
shuts off Italy from its European neighbors. It 
opened fifty-six gates to let us through — gates of 
Egyptian darkness into which we rushed blindly with 
the daring of the iron horse, and out of which we 
emerged smiling, taking long breaths for body and 
soul. And how could eight people utilize fifty-six 
gates? By taking them in succession, all these little 
gates that one after another make up the great St. 
Gotthard portal. 

As I have before said, there are a dozen well-known 
passes across these Alps, of which we took the mid- 
dle one, whose railroad begins at the fourfold Lake 
of Lucerne, that central and unrivaled gem of Switzer- 
land, and ends in a group of lakes like Lucerne, 
shaken into many parts, and so beautiful as to be 
known par excellence as "the Italian Lakes." 

Italy's natural communication with the north is 
limited to the difficult coast line of the Italian and 
French Riviera, or the equally difficult line from Ven- 
ice, around the northern end of the Adriatic — the 
Austrian Riviera. Consequently there have been from 
earliest historic times roads more or less defined over 
these mountain saddles, where Caesar sent his legions 
by forced marches to the attack of the Helvetians, or 
Varus led his armies to the conquest of Germany. 

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Long before this the Gauls had found a way to swoop 
down upon their envied neighbors ; and Hannibal had 
somehow tugged his big elephants over the wall. 
Later the Goths and Huns tried their skill at climbing, 
with renowned success; and after them the Franks 
and Germans found it necessary to blaze a pretty dis- 
tinct path, so that they could speed down to Italy on 
occasion, to secure an imperial crown or to try a bout 
with a recalcitrant pope. When we have nothing 
else to dream about on some dull night, we'll call 
up before our eyes those processions of warriors, 
emigrants, merchants and princes who have tramped 
the highways and bored the tunnels, established lodg- 
ings and constructed shelters, bridged the cataracts, 
and dared the avalanches, along which we glide to-day 
on velvet cushions, a pleasure journey of six or eight 
hours. 

Beginning at the west, the Mont Cenis and Little 
St. Bernard Passes connect France and Italy — the 
first pierced by a tunnel of seven and three-fourth 
miles, the longest in the world at the time of its con- 
struction in the sixties ; the second crossed by a dili- 
gence road. Somewhere along this last Hannibal 
and Caesar made their crossing. The next four 
passes connect Switzerland and Italy — the Great 
St. Bernard, the Simplon, the St. Gotthard, and the 
Spliigen. The Great St. Bernard, like its neighbor of 
the same cognomen, was built by the efforts of St. 
Bernard of Menthon in the tenth century. Born a 
little to the west of Mont Blanc, and beginning as a 
missionary bishop to Savoy, Switzerland, and the 
neighboring parts of Italy, he not only laid out the 
two passes connecting the different parts of his dio- 
cese, but established upon them the two hospices 
which have been a refuge and safeguard for nigh on 
a thousand years. Here live small communities of 

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monks with their dogs, devoting themselves to a min- 
istry of self-sacrifice; for the altitude of 8,000 feet 
usually breaks down the health of a young man long 
before he reaches forty, and he has to retire to some 
other convent for his premature age. As for the 
noble dogs, I do not need to sing their praise. 

Over the Great St. Bernard Pass, Napoleon led 
30,000 soldiers in the year 1800, while he was still 
first consul, and he made up his mind that no such 
difficult road as this should shut off his cannon from 
Italy. So he began in that very year the Simplon — 
one of the noblest passes of them all, in which the 
wildest gorges and most dangerous of declivities are 
threaded by a firm macadamized road of such low 
gradient that diligence horses can travel it on a trot — 
bordered all the way by parapets or stone markers, 
and carried past danger points under galleries of 
stone or by tunnels in the rock. The completion of 
this road was one of the triumphs that signalized the 
early reign of the young emperor. Of late a Simplon 
railroad has been constructed which makes the most 
of the journey through one tunnel of over 12 miles 
in length — a terrible sacrifice of beauty to speed ; but, 
alas ! speed is such an asset in these days ! and a tun- 
nel is much more practicable in snow time than a pass 
of 6,000 feet elevation. 

After this comes the St. Gotthard, of which more 
anon ; then the Spliigen and Austrian Stelvio, both 
splendid in scenery, and furnishing ravines and water- 
falls of their own especial pride ; the Spliigen, starting 
from the canton of the Grison, which includes the 
lovely vales of Engadine and the Swiss Tyrol, the 
Stelvio beginning in the Austrian Tyrol. It is the 
highest pass in Europe, reaching an altitude of 9,000 
feet, and its mountain station of St. Maria boasts that 
it is the highest inhabited house of the Alps. In this 

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region one hears a Romansch language, a descendant 
of the tongue of the old Roman colonists, also much 
Italian. Several other less traveled passes in this 
neighborhood are said to date back to Roman times. 
Last are the two Austro-Italian railway passes — the 
Brenner and the Semmering. Neither is very high ; 
but the Brenner, the best pass for Munich, starts in 
Innsbruck, city of towering cliffs and imperial castles ; 
while the Semmering carries you by precipices, 
bridges and tunnels past the dolomites, and is the 
best route from Vienna. 

Now, there you are, with your white wall and its 
turnstiles before you. Which will you choose ? 

We came by the St. Gotthard ; and I have been very- 
foolish to tire your willing fancies with eleven other 
passes before beginning on it. But railroads move 
fast ; don't fear a long exposition. There is not half 
time to pick out the villages we rush through or soar 
above, not to mention the churches, towers, and 
ruined castles. Hither and yon our carriages whirl. 
Now we travelers fly to the east window, now to the 
west. The last hamlet was deep in a valley ; the next 
will be far above us on a steep hillside. Here is a 
grand snow peak ; gaze as if it were your farewell, 
for how can you tell which one may be the last ? And 
then into a dozen tunnels in a row, some with little 
loopholes looking to the outer world, some in utter 
darkness ; and we always wondering whether this may 
be the big tunnel of all, that will shut us in for fifteen 
minutes. 

Now if you were a railroad, grinding your steel 
heels into the ledge of a precipice, and should come to 
a spot where you must take an upward leap or have 
no ledge at all to travel on, what would you do ? Why, 
if you were wise, like this son of St. Gotthard, you 
would burrow right into that precipice, but always on 

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the same up-grade, describe a complete circle inside 
the rock, rising at every step; and when you emerged 
at the end of five minutes, there you would be, a 
score or two of metres above the point where you 
plunged in, and all ready for that higher ledge that 
just now looked so unattainable. No less than seven 
times would you accomplish this tour de force and 
tour d' esprit, either in circles or in loops; and when 
you came to the really great tunnel — nine miles long, 
and weighed down by 6,000 feet of mountain, you 
would find that to be only straight forward work of 
strength and patience, with considerable repose of 
spirit thrown in. Then, when you thrust your way 
out of that gloomy Alp — how white without, how 
black within ! — you would be in Italy ; Italy of the 
vines and olives, pomegranates and figs; Italy of the 
Roman Emperors and the Popes ; Italy of the 
Cinque Cento artists; Italy of your dreams and your 
desires. 

Of course I am not speaking politically, for the 
boundary line is still far ahead; but of the geograph- 
ical Italy which commences as soon as the chestnut 
groves begin to slope down the mountain sides ; as 
soon as the houses stand tall and stiff of stone and 
plaster, and the garden walls are built of upright slabs 
of stone (like the outcome of Jacob's dream). It 
will not be very long before you will see vines trained 
on pergolas, or flinging their wild arms out from lit- 
tle forest trees, set to support them, instead of cling- 
ing to low stakes, as they are taught to do in Ger- 
many and Switzerland. The olives will not appear 
for a long time yet, but willows and poplars, and bye 
and bye more vines that loop from tree to tree in long 
rows like a dryad's dance; and then will come a 
descent into a boundless plain, squared off into fields 
and gardens, with everywhere a thorough cultivation, 

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everywhere the women and children taking a part in 
the working of the soil. Greatest of all, you will 
touch the three Italian lakes of magic charm, Mag- 
giore, Lugano, and Como, and will pass by a cause- 
way right across the arm of the least one, that lies in 
the middle, taking in as you are able dissolving views 
of pearly water, like Lake Thun, but with an Italian 
softness in its tints, and of hills rising abrupt like lit- 
tle Alps, but somehow whispering of Italy. 

This is the land of Lombardy, named from those 
conquerors who poured down over these Alps in the 
sixth century — a mighty half-pagan horde, who 
changed the whole character of Italy by their infusion 
of northern blood, and were themselves changed in 
return from savage warriors to Christian counts and 
dukes. 

I trust you are able to specialize some of the state- 
ments I am giving you in bulk, and to introduce occa- 
sional exceptions to my generalizations. Above all, I 
trust you can discover where the "you" of my tale 
changed from a steel railroad to my beloveds at 
home ; and also to discern that I have not intended to 
represent the St. Gotthard tunnel as having been 
bored through from a Swiss entrance to an Italian 
exit; for I could tell you, if I should take time 
enough, just how the engineers began at each end, 
with what interest they advanced along their blind 
way, with what excitement they heard at last each 
others drills picking at the intervening rock, and how 
they fell into one another's arms when at last the 
wall of division dropped down between the little 
republic on the hills and the happy kingdom by the 
seas. 

This was in 1888. Some twenty years later the 
Simplon tunnel followed suit on a greater scale, being 
more than twelve miles long; and now we read that 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



there is a project for tunneling the old pass of the 
Romans, the Little St. Bernard, with a tube which 
would exceed this in length by a mile. The old meta- 
phor of overcoming difficulties and surmounting 
obstacles must soon be laid aside ; we, the successful 
eight, may as well begin to tunnel certain steeps that 
have lain before us, and bore the last impediments in 
our summer tour. 

And I am lodged in a Milan hotel, from the win- 
dows of which I can crane my neck and see the mar- 
ble turrets of the cathedral filling the whole end of 
the street ; and yet I sit with pen in hand to extort 
some semblance of wit from the black Simplon Tun- 
nel ! Such is the charming inconsistency of the weary 
traveler. We have already walked through the great 
house of God, and our souls are full of it; but you 
must wait till to-morrow for this joy; and in the 
anticipation of accompanying you then I bid you a 
happy good night. 

M. 



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PART VII— ITALY. 



XLII— MILANO LA GRANDE. 

Milan, Aug. 10. 
Dear friends: 

You will not need to rise from your beds in this 
city hotel to know that you are in Italy. The sound 
of it is in the air. 

Of course you slept with your windows open, like 
all good Americans. You wondered far on into the 
small hours whether Italy never cared to go to sleep; 
through your dreams you felt, possibly an hour or 
two of real quiet ; and then the bustle began again — 
electric trams, country carts, and jangling bells on 
the horses, vying with street sweepers, market wives, 
and workmen of divers sorts, especially the builders 
next door. And the Italian tongue ! I thought per- 
haps my memory had exaggerated its trills and im- 
pacts when I had allowed myself to compare it to the 
sound of a lively fanning mill; but there it is, living 
up fully to my first impressions of it. From cultured 
people within doors, from pulpit orators, from little 
children, from prima donnas and improvisatori, it is 
that dulcet thing that convention raves about ; but on 
the streets, from workmen who add to its natural 
emphasis the accentuation of their very positive 
desires, its rat-tat-tattle is anything but soothing. 

But if you should shut your windows and put wool 
in your ears, you would still guess Italy as you looked 
up to your ceiling, so lofty it is, and decorated, ten 
chances to one, with little loves and languishing god- 

365 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



desses, as though every hotel were a palace lapsed 
from its first estate. 

As lying abed is a welcome privilege to strenuous 
travelers, I'll just allow myself to put into words the 
differences that strike one's ear in listening to the talk 
of the nations, and in making a study also of their 
best of speech. There is not only the difference of 
actual sounds, but fully as much in putting these 
sounds together and in adjusting their proper accents. 
You easily differentiate the French nasals and liquids 
from the German gutturals and umlauts ; and among 
the Italians you notice no sounds that are wholly 
new, but a great prevalence of the r's and the so- 
called soft g and ch ; also of those consonants we call 
mutes — p, k, and t, which, as used by them, have 
none of the retiring quality one would expect from a 
mute. But a subtler discovery it is that the French 
make much of their vowels while minimizing their 
consonants to the last degree ; that the Germans exult 
in both vowels and consonants, and make them ring 
out in a way that shames our feeble imitation ; and 
that the Italians end every word, or at least every 
phrase, with a vowel sound, this being so universal 
that it seems to them impossible to say "Good morn- 
ing," and "Gooda morning" is the nearest approach 
in their power. Most subtle of all is the accentuation 
and phrasing, without which French is not French, 
nor German, German. French syllables must run 
along like beads upon a string, the pauses at the end 
of phrases giving the only opportunity for accent, 
and the last syllable before this pause being the big 
bead on which you may intone to your heart's con- 
tent. Keep right down to a horizontal level till you 
reach these pauses — then soar to any height that 
pleases you. 

Oh, oui ; il-le-faut-tou-jours'. 
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It is an excellent thing in any country to polish 
your speech by attending church. Try to so sanctify 
your study that your conscience will let you get in 
touch with the worship and with the speech at the 
same time; for preachers can generally be depended 
upon for a good use of their own tongues ; and they 
will give it to you more slowly and intelligibly than 
the actors on the stage, to whom you are recom- 
mended. But if you cannot listen to sermons seven 
days in the week, your salesmen and shop girls will 
teach you a good deal, even though they be not infalli- 
ble in speech ; and when you are able to imitate the 
flight into the zenith with which a shopkeeper tells 
you that a handkerchief sells at un-franc-quatre-vingt- 
quinze, you are well on toward a great achievement. 
Now the German does quite differently ; he has no 
law to keep his phrases on a level, nor to confine his 
accents to final syllables ; but when he wishes to em- 
phasize a word or a syllable, he just lays it hori- 
zontally on a high shelf with a good, firm slap as he 
puts it there. 

Ach, nein; das ware mir unmoglich. 

With the Italian it is the one bold accent on every 
polysyllabic word that is the essential ; and the tone 
of the whole sentence is such a rhythmic succession of 
these accents, on an ever varying pitch, as to give 
occasion for the remark often heard that Italian is 
not spoken, but sung. Certainly from soft, sweet 
voices the pronounced cadences are most musical ; 
and the g and ch, and r and t, fall into their respective 
places like well trained instruments in an orchestra ; 
but from the people on the streets, especially late at 
night and early in the morning, when all Italians seem 
to feel an afflatus of intercommunication, kindly de- 
liver me. I'll shut that window now, and begin my 
toilet at once, lest you turn upon me with inquiries 

Z&7 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



about the English and its idiosyncrasies. These 
idiosyncrasies, which I am inclined to think rather 
refined, expressive, and clear-cut, will be much more 
so in our western world when we have introduced the 
teaching of voice production used in English schools. 
You remember that I ventured a statement in regard 
to great improvement of late years in English speech ; 
and now I can explain and corroborate my impres- 
sion ; for I learn that voice production is a recent 
addition to the curriculum of British schools, and is 
begun at about the age of fourteen. Viva la voice- 
production ! and may it ring and sing until it has 
crossed the Atlantic and reached our colleges and 
seminaries as well as our public schools. 

Do you realize, my friends, that it is a long eight 
days since we have satisfied ourselves with the sight 
of a cathedral? Do you also begin to realize that 
cathedrals, like mountains, fill a great hall in one's 
gallery of delights; and that this, once occupied, can 
never again be vacant without a daily sense of lack? 
Between Cologne and Milan what feasts have been 
ours ! And whether we call the Alps "our temples of 
ice," or this vast cathedral "a mountain in marble," 
we are in either case using the one vast satisfaction to 
describe the other. I am sorry that, as you look down 
this street, the glorious vision with which it ends is 
not shining like the Jungfrau. But perhaps it is just 
as well to see it first in its least splendor, and so let 
it grow upon you. If the sun should strike it now I 
would not be surprised at a shout like that which 
greeted the first view of the mountain. Even from 
this distance you can see the forest of marble spires 
and pinnacles that go to its making; and as you ap- 
proach you discover that your street-wide view was 
only a small section of the great choir. The Carrara 
marble, in which it was begun more than five hundred 

368 



EIGHT WEEKS 



/I 




a -t- 

mm 



■ mm 
if kimm 



W. 

A^MlJ.- 

tan 




369 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



years ago, long shone like the snows of Monte Rosa; 
but now it darkens a little from decade to decade, as 
marble must, especially in the smoky air of cities. 
Still, it is evidently white marble, through and 
through, and the upper shafts against the sky seem 
hardly to forget their pristine splendor. If you were 
living in Milan you would soon find yourself uneasy 
if long out of sight of the cathedral; you would be 
glad that many streets converged to it ; you would 
glance up one and another of them on a hot day to 
rest your eyes on its coolness ; you would use it as a 
landmark when astray in tangled thoroughfares ; you 
would rejoice in its shadow in summer, and in its 
reflected warmth in winter; you would often take 
your way directly through its interior, not so much 
to cut off distance as to feast your soul ; you would 
always be thinking, when tired of humdrum employ- 
ments, "Just: a few minutes' walk, and I can sit down 
in the great temple" ; you would seldom pass from 
one end of the Piazza to the other without whispering 
to yourself "Go round about Zion, tell the towers 
thereof"; you would come to measuring all heights 
and all widths by its great dimensions, to comparing 
all sculpture with what you loved best of its 2,000 
statues ; it would be the first sight you would show 
3^our friends from abroad; the supreme object of 
choice when you selected souvenirs to send away. To 
live without it, to drop it out of one's daily experi- 
ence — what a bereavement ! But we, you see, are 
here for two half days, and we are trying to sketch 
in such outlines, by our powers of perceiving, and 
admiring, as we may fill in from future acquaintance. 
Don't you know how just an introduction to a great 
man puts you in communication with his past, and 
keeps you interested for his every act in future? 

Will you enter at this south transept, where the 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



curtain-covered doorway is open all the day, or go the 
long way round to the west front? I advise the lat- 
ter. Even for myself, who took a good look yester- 
day, I think it is better to enter facing the long vista 
of columns, the high altar, and the choir, just as the 
architect planned we should do. A first impression 
of grand perspectives is heightened by every later 
visit ; and there, too, I would not hurry to the central 
door, even if it should be open; for one admiring 
glance down the outer aisle, a second down its neigh- 
bor, wider and loftier, and then a full view in the cen- 
tre of the nave — that will give you the natural and 
perfect climax. Indeed, I would not hasten even to 
step into that side aisle ; for, consider ; this may be the 
most beautiful place that you will ever enter until 
you go up to the New Jerusalem. Step not rashly 
into the presence of the supreme. A thought, a 
prayer, some sense of preparedness comes before a 
great introduction. 

Our eight have never stood before in a cathedral 
all of marble. Behold it ! like a bride adorned for her 
husband! Samite and satin and lace all wrought 
in marble ; the lofty clustered columns girdled about 
with galleries of saints; the groined ceiling so high 
that our best church steeple at home of 150 feet could 
stand under it; broad spaces in these aisles and 
transepts where our whole cityful could worship, for 
it will hold 40,000 people ; and a glory of stained glass 
such as we have not seen since we left Notre Dame— 
the largest windows set in any cathedral, and burning 
with all the colors of jewels as though they were the 
precious ornaments of this bride. How black is the 
cavern in yonder shining Alp ! How white and costly 
is this vast interior ! "The King's Daughter is all 
glorious within." Could there be a better ideal 
wrought of earthly stuff to set forth heavenly 

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beauty? The beauty that every one of our home 
churches emulates in its small way ; the beauty that 
these little walking temples of ours are striving to 
attain — "all glorious within." 

San Carlo Borromeo is perhaps the greatest hero 
of this cathedral. He is the saint par excellence of 
Northern Italy, living just after the Reformation, 
and showing by a life of love and piety, coupled 
with rare ability, what great excellencies still re- 
mained in the Catholic Church. He belonged to the 
aristocratic family which gave its name to the beau- 
tiful Borromean Islands in Lago Maggiore; and 
through all this part of the country he traveled back 
and forth as missionary bishop. By him this cathed- 
ral was consecrated after it had been building two 
hundred years; by him the designs were suggested of 
the unique round pulpits that embrace the pillars on 
either side of the choir. In one of the chapels in 
the north aisle is preserved the simple wooden cruci- 
fix that he carried, bare-footed, to the sick in the year 
of the plague ; and under the dome, the place of honor 
is given to his tomb, beloved cardinal and saint. 

Another name that we must be sure to associate 
with Milan Cathedral is that of Gian Galeozzo, great- 
est of the family of the Visconti, founder both of this 
building and of the great convent of La Certosa of 
Pavia. The Visconti and their successors, the Sforza, 
ruled Milan for two hundred years in the same way 
in which the Medici ruled Florence and the Scaligers, 
Verona. It was a time, from the 13th to the 15th 
centuries, when city republics were trying to stand 
alone, and were repeatedly falling into the power of 
crafty despots who, like all political bosses, were 
sometimes a boon and sometimes a curse. Along 
with the power, these won for themselves various 
titles, that of duke being the one especially coveted. 

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As we have not time to investigate the intricacies of 
these two families, we are trying to make a slight 
acquaintance by committing to memory the fact that 
"the splendor-loving" Gian Galeozzo seized the rule 
from his most interesting uncle, Barnabo, whom he 
imprisoned, and that the great convent of La Certosa 
of Pavia, which we long to visit and cannot, was built 
by him as penance appointed by the pope for this 
usurpation. Then, when we visit the Castello in the 
northwest of the city, a fine old fortress in a lovely 
park, we shall further realize the Visconti and their 
successors, the Sforza. Even though we cannot go to 
all the museums here, we shall not fail to add to our 
postal-card collection a charming head of Beatrice 
d'Este; and she was wife of Ludovico Sforza, the 
greatest of that family, patron of arts, and especially 
of Leonardo da Vinci. 

Behold how our knowledge is growing as we still 
sit in the great temple, both place of worship and 
recorder of events through the centuries. Slowly it 
grew under these changing rulers; even at Cardinal 
Borromeo's consecration it had not attained to the 
dome under which he lies. Spaniards and Austrians 
did little for it in the time of their lordship; and at 
last it was Napoleon who distinguished himself by 
furnishing the fagade. Like some other of his works, 
it is not wholly satisfactory, being somewhat at vari- 
ance with the rest of the structure; and when Milan 
has money to spend, some day, you'll see another in 
its place, and will be able to add at least one more 
century to the years of its development. 

From the square in front of the cathedral many 
streets radiate, and all the great tram lines start. 
Here we stop on the broad steps of the cathedral to 
"orient ourselves," as the Germans say, and decide 
what to see and what to postpone to that "next time" 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



that every traveler talks about. The rattle of Italian 
speech is all about us, also the animation of Italian 
gesture. Two women, carrying on an undertone con- 
versation by the church doors, have their faces close 
together and their hands up-lifted between them, with 
fingers in motion as though they were deaf mutes. 
Much as the Italian loves to use his voice, he also 
takes delight in expressing himself in gesture alone; 
and those eloquent fingers are a kind of esperanto, 
understood by all. 

The splendid building at our right, with colonnades 
below, a dome overhead, and a huge archway for its 
portal, is the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, of which 
Milan is justly proud. A palace of delights it is by 
day or by night ; for the shops and restaurants are of 
the best ; the four arms that meet under its dome are 
convenient connections between principal streets, and 
the vista as you enter from this Piazza del Duomo 
ends in the Piazza Leonardo da Vinci, where that 
many-sided genius stands in quiet marble on his 
pedestal with four of his favorite pupils looking up 
to him for inspiration. When you have seen that 
statue once you want to see it again ; when you have 
seen it twice, you wonder why every city cannot have 
such a work of grace and honor to look to in the cen- 
tre of its hurrying trade. Plots of grass and shrubs 
surround it, seats are ready for the weary, and there 
is no hour of the day when some one is not looking 
toward the great master. 

Off to the north from Leonardo is the Brera, the 
famous picture gallery where you can see Raphael's 
"Espousals" and a lot of pretty things by Luini and 
others of the Leonardo school. 

But we must come back to our church steps, where, 
by ecclesiastical rule, we are facing the west. For 
the high altar must be to the east that priest and peo- 

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pie when joining in the creed may look toward Jeru- 
salem, toward the rising sun, and to the coming of 
the Lord. St. Peter's is one of the few exceptions, 
as we shall see when we reach Rome. Looking west, 
then, the street opposite us that turns a little north 
would show us at its end a city park and the old cas- 
tle ; but to the south and west we must go to see three 
sights we cannot afford to miss — the old Roman pil- 
lars, the Church of St. Ambrose, and the "Last Sup- 
per," by Leonardo. 

So great has been the glory of "Milano la Grande" 
in the last five centuries that one almost forgets her 
importance in earlier days ; and our electric tram 
gives us short time for recalling a few historic points ; 
how in the divided empire under Diocletian in the 
fourth century the capital of the West was transferred 
from Rome to this city, and here remained for more or 
less of a hundred years until Honorius moved it to 
Ravenna (410 A. D.) ; how, later, the Lombards made 
their capital in Pavia, a little way to the south, and 




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how the repeated contests with them, with rival cities, 
and with the growing power of German emperors, 
reduced Milan once and again to a state of ruin. But 
here stand the sixteen Corinthian columns, all in a 
row beside the curbstone, looking across the sidewalk 
to San Lorenzo, the oldest church of the city, where 
three men stand ringing a chime of bells, and down 
on our electric tram roaring along the narrow street 
between its steel rails and its overhead wire. A 
strange position for a Roman colonnade, gray with 
age, revered as the great-grandfather of all the 
structures in the city ! If only it could tell us whether 
this octagonal church was once its fellow — a great 
bathing hall of an emperor's palace; and how the 
change came about from the worship of Jupiter and 
Minerva to the prayers to Christ and the Virgin. Did 
the change sweep suddenly over the people like the 
passing of a cloud and sun across the landscape? or 
was it a struggle as fierce as the wars of the Lom- 
bards? Did this very street, perhaps, redden with 
the blood of martyrs ? And did the little boys at play 
beneath this colonnade pitch pennies stamped with 
the words "Annihilation of the Christians"? What 
was the Gothic king like who transformed the 
rotunda into a church? And who first set these 
Christian bells aj angling to the rythmic pulling of 
their ropes? Last of all, what do you think, Grey 
Beards, of the breakneck speed of these modern days, 
and of the impudent spark that flashes under the 
brow of your venerable architrave? The columns are 
silent, but they have taught us a part of our lesson, 
for we shall never forget that Milan once stood a 
Roman city. 

And not many blocks away we come to the next 
oldest church, of which we have much more definite 
information — the beloved San Ambrogio, where we 

376 



EIGHT WEEKS 









ilV 't 




^ . ' _*^^ 



never can go too often or stay too long. You see we 
have dropped back a thousand years from the found- 
ing of the cathedral, and 1200 years from that other 
saint, Carlo Borromeo, whom we mean to cherish in 
memory. 

377 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



We find San Ambrogio standing low, so that the 
pavement bends down to it, and inconspicuous on 
account of the atrium, or walled court, that shuts it 
in in front. The present church is said to be of the 
twelfth centurry ; but no atria like this were erected 
at that date, and everything about this old Roman 
method of approach speaks strongly for the tradition 
that the original church replaced a temple of Bacchus, 
and that what it kept of ancient walls and animal 
carvings it again handed on to its successor of the 
twelfth century. 

This is the first illustration we have had of an 
ancient basilica, a church made out of, or on the plan 
of, a Roman tribunal. We shall see better than this 
in Florence and Rome, basilicas flat-roofed within 
and domed like this church ; but the atrium we shall 
not often find; and this is in itself an ancient feature 
worth coming a long way to see. Notice also the 
pagan beasts carved on the entrance pillars. What 
an interesting contrast they make with the Christian 
tombstones and faded frescoes ! 

At the great doors we have to pause again — with 
emperors, mostly, for our ghostly companions ; for 
here Theodosius the Great found his entrance barred 
when he came to offer up thanksgiving for victories 
over his enemies in Thrace. Cruelty, Bishop Am- 
brose said. Footprints tracked in blood might not 
enter there. And the emperor yielded to the saint 
and did long penance at his command. This was 
in the first days of the church. A few centuries 
later German kings came here to receive the iron 
crown of Lombardy preliminary to obtaining the im- 
perial crown at Rome. But that iron crown, whose 
chief jewel is the thin hoop of iron, hammered from 
a nail of the true cross, and hidden behind the broad 
band of gold and precious stones, you cannot now see 

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unless you will stay over long enough to take an 
afternoon s ride to little Monza in the north ; for there 
one of these emperors, Frederick Barbarossa, carried 
it at the time when he razed Milan to the ground- 
and there you may see it exhibited to the swinging 
of incense when you and we take our next journey 

Now at last, after the delay caused by imperial 
penances and coronation processions, we step inside 
the historic gates, the precious wood of which is 
encased in gratings of iron, and directly are sur- 
rounded with a rich darkness, soft shades of buff 
terra cotta, and gray that fit so well the low round 
arches and heavy piers. Very unlike the cathedral 
and very satisfying. Everything seems old and 
touched with sacred associations. The pulpit is the 
very one from which St. Ambrose preached ; the altar 
is covered with a casing of chased silver and gold 
inlaid with enamel and gems, a masterpiece of a Ger- 
man goldsmith of Carlovingian times ; but this, again 
you will not see unless you pay a round five francs 
and give notice in time for the custodian to unlock 
and remove the metal covering that protects it from 
dishonest hands and transforms it into an ordinary 
altar. Over your head are mosaics of the same a^e 
and when you go down into the crypt you may lay 
your hand upon the stone sarcophagus of Pepin, the 
son of Charlemagne, and view a long row of those 
of the early bishops. But, best of all, you may be led 
by a low-voiced priest into a chapel opening from the 
south transept which he declares to be a part of the 
original church, and in which stands the episcopal 
throne, a quaint marble seat, used by Saint Ambrose. 
It seems to be always a priest with a low, distinct 
utterance and a saintly smile who leads tourists to this 
most sacred place in Milan. You are sure, as you 
listen to him, that his information is correct, that 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



these are the very altar steps on which St. Augustine 
kneeled to receive baptism from his great teacher, and 
— altho' you know you should not — you almost believe 
that the Te Deum was here composed as legend 
reports it — "We praise thee, O God" from St. Am- 
brose; "We acknowledge thee to be the Lord" from 
St. Augustine, — and so on to the end of this hymn 
of the ages. St. Ambrose and St. Augustine, two 
strong men who from a finished secular education 
turned to the service of the church and are reckoned 
now among the great fathers. Of a surety this tram 
ride and this morning walk have taken us a long jour- 
ney and have given us communion with those whom 
heretofore we knew only as in story or song. 

It remains now to have one more upbuilding sight 
■ — the view of Leonardo's masterpiece in the former 
refectory of the Convent of Sta. Maria delle Grazie. 

A convent refectory or the refectory of an 
abbey you would hardly think this simple hall 
to be, nor is it an inspiring approach, the buying 
of tickets at the little table of the porch, and 
the passing in through a registering turn-stile; but 
yonder is the Great Supper, reaching across the end 
of the hall. It has not fallen from the wall, as con- 
stant newspaper reports would have it ; nor lost its 
power to tell the saddest of all stories. As your eyes 
get accustomed to the light you see that several large 
copies have been hung on the side walls ; these are 
studies made long ago while the original was entire, 
and are carefully preserved as commentaries upon it. 

There are advantages and disadvantages, as you 
know, in fresco painting. The colors being laid upon 
fresh plaster, sink deep and cannot scale off. But if 
the wall itself receives such rough treatment that the 
plaster begins to fall, what shall then be done? Now 
this painting has the disadvantages of both fresco and 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



oil ; for it is done in the latter medium directly upon 
the dry plaster; and the wonder is that it has waited 
for us these four hundred years. Another wonder is 
that cunning artificers have learned how to rescue 
such precious works from further injury, — "arrested 
cases," as we say of human ills — how even to restore 
much of their lost beauty, and to transfer them from 
one wall to another. Two, at least, of the large fresco 
copies before us have been thus transferred. By 
some magic process of gluing canvas to the painted 
surface, loosening the plaster from its backing, rub- 
bing it down till only the painted scale is left, attach- 
ing this to a new wall or a strong backing, and then 
soaking off the covering canvas — so it is done. Quite 
simple, you see. But don't you think the man who 
does it draws a long breath when that choice fresco 
stands out fresh and content against its new back- 
ground ? 

Does it seem to you sacrilegious to be studying the 
transferring of frescoes in the presence of this great 
scene? It is only because we cannot take it all in at 
once, and wish a reason for looking back to it many 
times. Of course we think we know it by heart from 
engravings and photographs ; but to see it in its 
colors, and life-sized figures with every perfect touch 
of the artist speaking to us is something not to be 
missed. There are all the eager twelve looking, ques- 
tioning, asking one another's opinion, their heads 
gathered so close to one another as to leave the Mas- 
ter sitting alone ; there is the finished meal neglected, 
the dishes in disorder, the overturned salt, the purse 
held fast in the grip of Judas ; — and no attempt at 
local coloring, eastern dress, Roman method of reclin- 
ing at meals ; partly because oriental study was 
hardly known in Leonardo's day, partly because the 
painters of his time scorned to depend upon that for 

38i 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



their depicting of character and situation ; — and 
amidst all this animation the Master alone, waiting 
the result of that strange word of his, the two pathetic 
hands not yet marked by the nails of the cross, but 
laid in despairing, appealing gesture on either side 
upon the cloth before him. "One of you shall 
betray me." The long, white table makes a kind of 
frame in front, which the alcoved walls with perfect 
perspective and the paneled ceiling above complete ; 
in the rear open windows give a far look that may be 
to Calvary. 

Ferhaps we could not have torn ourselves away if 
it had not been for the unintentional help of another 
company of tourists. They sat in rows of chairs be- 
tween us and the picture, twenty strong ; and all the 
time that we were accustoming ourselves to the light 
of the room we were aware that some like process was 
demanded of our ears. A clear, gentlemanly voice 
was expressing something in English, something that 
ran on like the endless chain of a machine, with a 
pleasant inflection and no pause. After a while we 
discovered that it was an exposition of the painting — 
its excellencies, its meaning, its effect upon the specta- 
tor, its rank among other works of art, its compeers, 
its authenticity, the authenticity or non-authenticity 

of other works attributed to Leonardo, its no, 

there was not any shadow of a pause, and there never 
was to be. The voice came from a fine-looking young 
man in reputable clothes. He was standing, while all 
the others sat and held their peace. Perhaps they 
listened. There was no possible excuse for calling in 
a policeman, or even for appealing to the man at the 
turnstile. Those twenty-one had paid their francs ; 
or. more probably, twenty had paid francs and the 
twenty-first had entered under his privileges of con- 
ductor. 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



We tried to ignore it all ; to gaze untroubled as one 
does from a rumbling train or beside a thundering 
waterfall. We even thought of outstaying the 
twenty ; but that seemed impracticable. With a sense 
of helplessness we were turning to the door when a 
motion of our Guide-book lady arrested us. She had 
pushed her way close to the conductor, had lifted her 
face to his, was trying to catch his eye. In vain. 
Then she broke all rules of etiquette, as one does in 
case of sudden peril: — "If you please. I beg your 
pardon. Would you kindly allow me to take my com- 
pany out in front of the picture and speak a few 
words with them about it? We will not be there 
long." And that polite young man assented with a 
bow, laid restraint upon his cultured voice, and gave 
us all the time we wished, which, I assure you, was 
not much ; for we knew that we must be at our hotel 
in time for lunch and the afternoon train. Do you 
think those twenty longed to applaud our leader? I 
am sure that we did ; but the hush of a great presence 
was upon us, and we waited till the turnstile had dis- 
missed us every one before we began our congratula- 
tions and our free expression of opinion about con- 
ductors with zeal beyond knowledge. 

This letter, as you see, has reached along till after- 
noon, although it seemed to begin, like the Grand 
Monarque's levees, in bed. And it may be in bed that 
I am finishing it. I'll not tell you this time, for if I 
should just breathe the word Venice you might want 
me to go right on like the aforementioned conductor. 
Was it as recently as this morning that we were say- 
ing bad words about him ? It makes a long day to 
travel through so many centuries and meet men of so 
many ages. 

Good night — and hope to wake to the sound of 
Venetian waters. M. 

383 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



XLIII— THROUGH LOMBARDY TO VENICE. 




Dearly beloved: 

I have written, you see, the magical name, so that 
you may have the pleasure of listening to the splash 
of the gondolier's oar while I tell you of our journey 
hither. 

384 



EIGHT WEEKS 



If there is a noisier place on the face of the earth 
in which to spend the night than a central Milanese 
hotel, I have yet to know of it. Let me warn you 
when you are introduced into a charming room, look- 
ing out on a business street, handsome draperies at the 
windows, mahogany furniture, and two or three good 
mirrors, to beware of that room. You'll sleep far bet- 
ter in a little low-priced affair, looking out on a court. 
Those things I wrote you about yesterday morning 
don't make a constant procession through the hotel 
courts. Better a little smell of the kitchen coffee and 
a sound of polishing boots than the roar of happy pros- 
perity that belongs to the Corso. 

As we rattled along this same Corso in our hotel 
omnibus, conversation was impossible, and we real- 
ized that we were adding fully our share to the daily 
noise. The manner of growth of a European city 
was noticeable on our way to the station. We fol- 
lowed comparatively narrow streets till we had passed 
through an old gate; then turned and skirted for a 
while a curving canal that seemed at one time to have 
been a moat ; turned again out through broader 
streets and a modern gate, where we entered a beauti- 
ful encircling boulevard, with trees and park, and 
smooth macadam, in place of rough pavement. The 
outer wall was still kept up in semblance by means of 
houses set in line, or of stone-walled gardens — 
nothing that suggested defense in war, but rather as- 
surance of the "dazio consumo," or city tax, paid at 
the gates for produce brought from outside. It is a 
pleasureable excitement one feels on being challenged 
by a gallant gens d'arme as to the contents of a bag 
that holds a guide-book or an opera-glass; but it is 
probably not so pleasant to the countryman when one 
of the long spikes thrust into his load of hay strikes 

385 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



a nice little porker that he is smuggling in for a 
patron's dinner. 

Approaching the station — as usual, a handsome 
building — by way of the station park, we wonder 
again why our cities at home don't follow these ex- 
amples. Then we take our seats in a railway car- 
riage, none too clean, with half the seats turning back- 
ward, and no ventilation but the windows, and com- 
paring this with traveling at home, console our van- 
ity for the blow just received. We also make the fol- 
lowing mental notes: ist, that Europe's superiority 
or inferiority depends entirely upon the particular ob- 
jects on which the traveler stakes his happiness ; 2nd, 
that a black story and a white story may both be 
truthfully told by people traveling the same route ; 
and 3rd, that if European travel is to give more than 
mere diversion, it will be by bringing home the good 
and by taking warning from the evil. 

My Lady of the Guide-book has a way of bringing 
us to book occasionally in regard to what we have 
learned, wherein My Lady of the Veil and My Lady 
Persistent usually bear her out. My Lady Practical 
brings her notebook to our aid, and the rest of us gen- 
erally look out at the window. But on this occasion, 
the landscape having not yet developed anything new, 
and we all being too tired to rebel, she cunningly 
drew from us or through us the following bits of his- 
tory which we have, you may say, seen and touched 
in these two half days : 

1. Milano la Grande, a Roman capital in the 4th 
C. Before the close of this period its temples turned 
into churches. St. Ambrose baptizes St. Augustine 
(387 A. D.). 

2. Charlemagne and his successors come here to be 
crowned kings of Italy, and one of his sons is buried 
here. 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



3. A thousand years from St. Ambrose (1386) the 
"splendor-loving" Gian Galeozzo of the Visconti 
House, founds the cathedral. 

4. A century later Leonardo da Vinci is at work 
for Ludovico Sforza, who is now Duke in the Castle. 
The Last Supper — "il Cenacolo" — painted by him; 
also the portrait of the lovely Duchess Beatrice. 

5. Still a century later San Carlo Borromeo dedi- 
cates the cathedral (1577). 

6. In 1805 Napoleon rides up and down the piazza 
to survey the fagade which he has brought to comple- 
tion. 

7. One more century and the happy eight in electric 
trams and auto-cars survey the splendors all these 
worthies have prepared for them ! 

This glorious conclusion won all our hearts, and 
our mistress, finding us so unusually docile, proceeded 
to give us a lesson in Italian pronunciation, all in a 
nutshell : 

Give your vowels as in Latin, a, ah ; e, a ; i, ee ; o, 
6 ; u, 00 ; except that the o is generally more open, be- 
tween hut and hot. 

Give your consonants as in English, except that c, 
when soft before e, i, and y, is ch — cera, Cesario, 
and g in the same position is j — giro. 

H is always silent; / is like y, z like ts. Notice 
that i merely softens c or g when placed between them 
and or u, and so is not itself sounded, as in Giotto, 
Cio. H in the same position hardens c or g, as in 
Ghetto, che (ka), chimico. Except for the i just 
noticed, pronounce every vowel as a separate syllable 
and accent strongly the one before the last, and with 
a little judicious gesturing you will do very well. All 
which My Lady in Blue declared to be as easy as roll- 
ing off a log; and we all fell to practicing on Giotto 
(jotto), Gian (Jahn), giardino pubblico; Venezia — an 

387 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



exception in accent ; Pavia ; Piazza — three syllables, 
according to rule ; citta ; Firenze ; da Vinci ; Am- 
brogio; and our own eight names until our brains 
were as rested as though they had not had fifteen cen- 
turies poured through them in as many hours ; and 
we were quite ready to look out at Verona for a pos- 
sible squint at the old amphitheatre or the tombs of 
the Scaligers. We could not see either; but we 
learned that the former was like the Roman Coli- 
seum; that a legend makes Theodoric the Great, the 
Ostrogothic king, set up his palace in it ; that 
"Dietrich of Bern," in old German tales, is the 
same as Theodoric of Verona; also that the Scaligers 
were to Verona what the Visconti and Sforza were 
to Milan, and that their name of Scala-geri (ladder- 
bearers) gives the symbol of the ladder in their 
escutcheon. 

About here the train proceeded further and My 
Lady Persistent suggested, with smiling irony, that a 
few postals added to these facts would make us quite 
familiar with the city; to which My Lady of the Star 
made addition of the plays of "Romeo and Juliet," 
and of "Two Gentlemen of Verona," as laid here ; and 
our bard begged a hearing, before leaving the land of 
Lombardy, for her last effusion, which I will set 
down at the end of my letter. 

At Padua, again, we tried for at least an impres- 
sion, and I think we saw the great domes of San An- 
tonio, which will make it easier for us henceforth to 
locate that lovable saint, who is represented with the 
Christ child in his arms; and My Lady of the Veil 
reminded us that it was to the ancient university here 
that Portia sent to secure her learned uncle for the 
defense of her lover's friend. My Lady in Green 
tried to make us regret that we were not robbing 
Venice of a few hours to see at Padua Giotto's won- 

388 



EIGHT WEEKS 



derful frescoes in Santa Maria dell' Arena. But we 
were a good deal like berry-pickers in a blueberry 
pasture — so dazed with superabundant riches that we 
were reckless of what we passed by. "Shan't we see 
Giotto at his best at Florence? And why stop for 
him here?" 

And, "Shall we see Venice from afar?" "And how 
shall we know when we are there ?" "Omnibuses, you 
say, for the hotel?" "And will the pavements be 
as rough as in Milan?" "A bridge, you say, a great 
causeway to reach the island city?" "And, alas, and 
alas, if we should all be disappointed !" 

We glided into that station as though it might h; ve 
been Boston. We had to shout "facchino" for a por- 
ter, just as at any other stopping place, and wait to 
see him dislodge those ten pieces ; we followed the 
crowd as on any commonplace platform past the 
ticket-puncher and out at the open gable — when, lo! 
a rattle of voices very much like what we had left at 
Milan, a shouting of hotel names, of addresses, of 
calls for porters, more hotels, more porters; here is 
the man we want and who wants us ; — a line of black 
in front of us, and of blue green beyond ; the crowd 
is pushing us toward it, and it is, it is the Grand Canal 
with a row of gondolas drawn up in waiting ! and the 
gondoliers all in a mix about who is to go with whom 
— trunks hustled in here, passengers there; and these 
two black-swans at last secured for us, and we taking 
our first steps into these boats of Fairyland. "Did 
you think you'd ever live to see the day?" "Do you 
believe you are in the city of Doges?" "Is this a 
responsible man, do you suppose? and does he know 
where we want to go?" "That hotel porter is not 
going with us ? and we are to be set adrift alone with 
this fierce-eyed bandit?" "Have you counted those 
suit-cases? You are quite sure that was not one of 

389 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



ours that was handed into the gondola in front?" 
And at that we are off, this disguised fairy prince 
swinging us along with the queer, pushing motion of 
his oar, the blue-green waters rocking us with a wel- 







spa 



EIGHT WEEKS 



coming swish against our bow ; the strange, enchanted 
houses rising silent from the waters on either hand. 
Now we turn from this broad canal into one of the 
narrower branches that look so dark and cistern-like 
at first ; we round the corner with no disaster, avoid 
this moss-grown wall by a knife-blade escape, it seems 
to us; the high, black "ferro," which terminates our 
prow, sways back and forth like the head of a bird ; 
here comes our first bridge, which is to us a kind of 
gate to Paradise ; the graceful creature that bears us 
seems to enter into our excitement, lifts her head 
more proudly till it reaches well up under the arch, 
quivers a bit and bows a bit, and now the shadow has 
passed away over us and we are eagerly looking out 
for the next turn and the next bridge. 

Here I must close without waiting to tell you of 
our vision this evening of the lighted square of St. 
Marks. You may dream it over, and I will tell you 
to-morrow whether your dreams were correct. 

A loving and happy good night to all. 

M. 

LOMBARDY. 

Ramparts of everlasting snow, 

By foreign foe untrod; 
Dozvn-sweeping folds of chestnut groves, 

Couch for a pagan god. 

Parqnettcs of poppy-dotted fields, 

Where singing peasants plod, 
Hangings of olives, mulberries, vines, 

With pomegranate bells anod. 

Mirrors of iridescent lakes 
A quiver with sun and cloud, 

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Where Alps bend down to view their crown, 
Castles and villas laugh and frown, 
And skiffs glide silvershod. 

Beloiv, below, the encircling Po 
And sister streams that stately go 
Dreaming of galleys weighted low 
That sometime sailed their Hood. 

A veteran soldier close beside, 
The Roman road, as straight and wide 
As zvhen Rome's legions marched in pride 
To battle on barbarous sod. 

And listen, the far-away chant of a saint, 
A poet's song, a queen's complaint. 
Here kings are crozvned, here artists paint, 
And sculptured choirs in rhythm quaint 
Latin and Lombard, in love's constraint 
Lift endless praise to God. 



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EIGHT WEEKS 



XLIV— THE BRIDE OF THE ADRIATIC. 

Venice, Aug. n. 

Four wizards came from the four winds, 
To bless the youthful Venice with a bridal dower. 
Nature bestowed a paintbox of the rarest dyes, 
Conquest heaped bronze and marbles on the hundred 

isles, 
Commerce flung out a shipload of his orient stuffs, 
And Art transformed this medley into palaces. 
But see, old Father Time came by that way, 
Laid down his scythe and sat and mused a while, 
Dumb at her beauty; then he smiled and laid 
A bony hand caressingly upon her head, 
And lo! — the mightiest magician of them all! 

We usually begin with the practical, beloved, and 
when your enthusiasms are aroused, drop in a flavor- 
ing of the poetical. But Venice reverses all laws ; 
and for her a few rhythmic lines are the best kind of 
a text on which to enlarge. We are all of us under 
the spell — more than satisfied with what we find, more 
than willing to put up with the hot weather that has 
greeted us. For this last we were, of course, pre- 
pared, as they must be who register Italy on their 
books for August. We accepted it heroically in the 
bustle of Milan, and intended to say nothing about it 
in Venice ; but the stillness of this place of many 
shadows, and the opportunities at any moment to 
escape to the coolness of a gondola, have almost; 

393 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



made us friends of the 8o's. Mosquitoes we 
were promised, too, and were willing to accept a very 
small battalion of them for the pleasure of camping 
under these tents of spotless lace ; but they must, like 
ourselves, have preferred the Grand Canal, for we 
have seen or heard few of them. I am half inclined 
to think that their zest in attacking innocent sleepers 
has been lessened by the introduction of electric 
lights. Turning a button at the head of one's bed to 
institute a search is quite a different thing from steal- 
ing out from under the bars, lighting a candle, and 
proceeding with terror of a conflagration, to explore 
the lacy interior. 

This hotel, though only the quiet understudy for a 
more brilliant affair, is spacious and comfortable. If 
you come to it by water you wonder what luxuries 
it can furnish when it begins with such a narrow- 
minded little balcony. If you come by land, which, 
after several experiences of getting lost, we can now 
do successfully, you turn in from a broad street — 
fully as broad as your diningroom — at a dark alley 
four feet wide, with the name of another hotel on 
its threshold, follow it past terrifying black doors 
toward a globe of electric light, and just under this 
last are at your own side door. Here you enter the 
office and general waiting and reading room ; from 
this pass to other more sumptuous salons looking out 
upon the water, and to a charming garden or court, 
with orange trees and other exotics, pergolas, vines, 
tea-tables, and again a water front. The major- 
domo and porter can manage a pretty good English, 
and you may take your choice between furthering 
their education in that language or your own in 
Italian. They seem to take a fatherly interest in us, 
our letters, and our purchases ; and like some other 
fathers, consider themselves privileged to be a trifle 

394 



EIGHT WEEKS 



arbitrary. When Signore pushes into our rooms 
quite uninvited in making enquiries about baggage, 
and when he remarks severely at dinner-time, "You 
are late," we are inclined to think him too paternal ; 
but when he enters into the woes of My Lady Bright 
Eyes, whose head aches from sleeping in a stuffy 
room, and manages to have her and her belongings 
brought down two flights of stairs and up four to an 
airy apartment overlooking the Grand Canal, and all 
without a soldo of extra charge, we agree that his 
interest is genuine. 

You may judge from my beginning with weather 
and hotel, that some of the great sights have preceded 
this letter and depleted my stock of adjectives. You 
are correct. Our first evening found us ready for a 
good night's rest, those fifteen centuries of Milan 
having wearied both body and mind. We were in 
that state in which evening so often finds the traveler ; 
he is quite too tired, and will certainly devote the 
next day to recuperation. Whereupon he eats a good 
supper, sleeps like a log, and surprises himself in the 
morning by being ready for more sight-seeing. But 
here arose a difference of opinions. My Lady in 
Blue could not sleep if she saw another sight; My 
Lady in Green could not lay her head upon her pillow 
till she had looked with her own eyes upon the Piazza 
and San Marco. So we divided our allegiance be- 
tween the Blue and the Green and a few of us 
wandered out into the darkness to find our way, a 
short quarter of a mile, to the square of all squares. 

Do you cherish the idea, imbibed by many from 
travelers' tales, that in Venice you must always have 
a gondola at your call ? No more than you must have 
your carriage at home. The gondola is the cab of 
other cities ; when you are out for ease or for long 
distances, you take it ; when you are exploring, or 

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EIGHT LANDS IN . 

saving your pennies to buy more Venetian beads, 
you go on your own two feet. For every house in 
Venice has an exit toward a street or square, just 
as all the better ones have also their finest doorway 
to the water. Thus it is. Venice being situated on 
some threescore islands and these having been built 
out into the intervening waters sufficiently to make 
the usable land as great as possible and to reduce the 
water channels to a minimum, the result is a city 
very lobster-like in shape, facing toward the land, — 
its left flipper in place, its right one disappeared. 
This lobster shape is cut everywhere by irregular, in- 
tersecting canals of uniform width — or uniform nar- 
rowness — and, besides these, by one broad channel 
like a river which winds in the shape of a reversed 
S from the northwest, where our railroad dropped 
us, to the southeast corner, that looks upon the lagoon 
and out to sea. Except for the crossing of this Grand 
Canal, which must be. done by its three great bridges 
or by numerous ferries, you find no hindrance in 
passing from street to street; for little bridges by the 
hundred carry these across the narrower canals, arch- 
ing enough to let gondolas pass underneath at high 
water, which may come as a result of high tides or 
strong winds. Up a few steps, a few yards on a 
level, and down a few steps — that is the constant ex- 
perience of the pedestrian ; and that is the reason 
why no wheeled vehicle of any kind is in use in 
Venice. Not even a baby cart could do more than 
roll up and down some little court, or the short length 
of a shopping street ; except in the one lovely square, 
the Piazza San Marco. This is between five and six 
hundred feet in length — almost an eighth of a mile — 
and nearly half as broad. It's east end is occupied 
by the arches and domes of St. Mark's ; its west end 
by an elegant structure of Napoleon's building, which 

396 



EIGHT WEEKS 




gives pillared communication through its lower story 
with the streets back of it; the two long sides by con- 
tinuous fagades of beautiful Renaissance buildings 
over colonnades in which are situated the finest 
shops of the city. These flanking buildings, now oc- 
cupied by government offices, were once the palaces 
of the Nine Procurators, the associates of the Doge 
in the government of the republic and with him mak- 
ing up the Council of Ten. 

From the southeast corner of the piazza turn down 
an L known as the Piazzetta, which runs right out 
to the water — the embouchure of the Grand Canal, 
and has the Doge's Palace, with its double arcades 
and Gothic windows, on the left, and the Royal 
Palace, one end of which fronts the piazza, on its 
right. At the end looking out to sea rise the two 
granite columns of ancient date, surmounted re- 
spectively by St. Theodore on his crocodile, and the 
Winged Lion of St. Mark. 

One of you asks right here : What is the difference 
between the Doge's Palace and the Royal Palace, and 

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why should the latter exist in a city that is not a cap- 
ital of the country? A very reasonable question, too. 
Please use mental telepathy as often as you can, and 
help on the usefulness of these letters. 

The Doge's Palace was both residence and seat of 
government so long as Doges governed ; but is now a 
kind of museum of splendor. The Royal Palace is 
the residence always in readiness for the King of 
Italy when he cares to honor the city with a visit ; and 
the like are to be found in all the larger cities. 




I am sorry that my proclivity for topography has 
obliged me to introduce this matter-of-fact description 
of the great piazza at the outset, for that is not what 
we saw last evening. We made our way out of our 
hotel in deepening twilight ostensibly by direction of 
our porter, but really by a sense long ago cultivated 
in tracing old wood roads and blazed paths on New 
England hillsides ; first through the little four- foot 
alley mentioned above — what blackness between high 

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walls, what suggestions of lurking cutthroats ! then, 
by a wrong turn, through a beautiful hotel court with 
a palm tree and blossoming oleanders, past an old 
well with marble curb and some picturesque Italian 
girls against a background of wistaria ; through more 
blackness into the light of a broad street with shops ; 
over a broad and handsome bridge — quite a little 
Rialto in its way ; by more shopping streets — corals 
and pearls, fretted gold chains, embroidered silks, 
lace scarfs, beads, beads, beads ; all that repetition of 
Interlaken glories that an experienced friend of ours 
designates as "rot" ; then under the chaste pillars that 
suggest an approach to a cathedral — a blaze of light 
in front of us, and out into the midst of that blaze 
into the grandest salon of all Europe ; for so it seems 
with its inlaid floor under foot ; its architectural mas- 
terpieces for walls, the tourists of all nations, and the 
pleasure-loving of Venice admiring, chatting, prom- 
enading up and down, and taking ices at little tables. 
In the distance, dim in the gathering dark, rises an 
unshapely mass that we know to be the upbuilding 
Campanile — that fell a few years ago. Beyond it as 
we make our way in that direction we begin to dis- 
cern the hundred pillars of the cathedral porches and 
a flash of light reflected from the gold background 
of the mosaics above them. Look down the Piazzetta 
to more lights upon the quays, on the water, on the 
islands far beyond. Fairyland again, according to 
programme ; and what if we do lose our way on our 
return and ignominiously stoop to saying the name of 
our hotel to some of those black-cloaked bandits? 
What if My Lady Practical does acknowledge to be- 
ing beyond measure tired, and also glad that there is 
no campanile to climb? We have seen the mirage set 
firm on solid pavements, we have touched the floating 
wonder. It is no dream. 



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Sails that -makelV Harijorjaj. 



This morning we saw the same place by daylight, 
and, to our surprise, found it still more beautiful; for 
now the buffs and marbles of the palaces had their 
full value, and the many-tinted pillars brought from 
eastern lands, and the gorgeous colors of the mosaics 
for which Venice has always had a special reputation. 
Now, also, we can verify the paintings of Venetian 
artists in the colors of the sails that make the harbor 
gay — brown, red, and orange, against a sea of chryso- 
prase and a turquoise sky. 

"How ever did these people build their city in this 
queer place ?" asks My Lady Practical ; "and what 
moved them to do it?" I think they were moved by 
fear and by ambition. By fear of the barbarous hordes 
that were pouring down into Italy in the last days of 
the Empire and later, especially of the inexpressible 
Huns and the awful Lombards; — and by ambition 

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because they saw an opportunity to be independent 
of neighbors, to develop the resources of a sea-faring 
life, and to engage undisturbed in cunning workman- 
ship at home and in conquests abroad. 

At first the islands had broad spaces of water be- 
tween them, the houses and bridges were of wood 
with roofs of thatch, and the old homes on the main- 
land were a constant resource. But when the in- 
habitants once conceived the idea of building a city 
of brick and stone, of strengthening the made land 
with piles from the forests on shore and with sea- 
walls of stone — of making their fleet an object of 
envy, and of hiring out to warring cities in Italy and 
to crusaders in the East, then began the days of their 
glory. From the outset Venice was a republic, choos- 
ing a doge (a duke — Herzog) or leader whom she 
endued with crown and sceptre; and ruling also by 
great councils, electors, councils of ten, and the like. 

In the year 828 A. D., while the cathedral was 
building, the Venetians managed to obtain in Alex- 
andria the body of St. Mark, brought it away by 
stealth, and laid it under the high altar of the church 
as their most precious possession. Next they lent 
assistance to a pope against the Ghibellines and re- 
ceived in return the gift of a ring with command to 
wed the Adriatic "that posterity might know that the 
sea was subject to Venice as a bride to her husband." 
And from this arose the pompous ceremony long con- 
tinued of going out to sea on Ascension Day — all the 
powers and all the commonalty in grand attire — to 
drop a ring into the waters. 

The reversal of terms in our modern days at this 
point baffles us a little ; for we know Venice as the 
Rride of the Adriatic instead of the bridegroom ; but 
My Lady of the Veil remarks that relations have 
changed in these days, and that the pretty cognomen 

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used by us may imply the same authority of the city 
that the pope originally intended. 

At the beginning of the thirteenth century arose 
the greatest hero of the republic, the only Venetian 
we shall have to remember by name until we begin 
looking at the artists — Enrico or Arrigo — Dandolo, 
"blind Dandolo," as he is usually called. Chosen as 
doge when his blindness had come upon him, at the 
age of seventy commanding a fleet at about eighty, in 
the Fourth Crusade — he helped to conquer Constan- 
tinople, brought away those bronze horses that are 
now prancing above our heads, with ship-loads of other 
spoils, and ushered in the days of greatest prosperity. 
To these conquests Venice later added Cyprus, 
Zante, and a part of Greece; also the whole Adriatic 
coast of Istria and Dalmatia to the Island of Corfu; 
and in Italy she became a kind of over-lord to many 
rival cities. 

Meanwhile the able stay-at-homes were perfecting 
the arts of the goldsmith and the glass-blower, the 
weaving of gauzy tissues learned from Persia, the 
use of gunpowder obtained from the Arabs ; were 
assimilating the learning of the Greeks, introducing 
printing and fine book-binding, and building up a 
school of painters never to be outdone in richness of 
color and decorative grouping. So when the blow to 
commerce fell in the discovery of Vasco da Gama's 
new sea route to India by way of the Cape of Good 
Hope, whereby Portugal became the natural stopping 
place instead of Venice, the city still had her manu- 
factures to fall back upon. 

If we should go out to Murano, an island to the 
north, we could visit the glass manufactories of such 
superlative merit that we do not wonder at the aris- 
tocratic rank granted in the old days to the islanders. 
They had their own golden book of descent, minted 

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their own coins, and boasted that their citizens were 
eligible to the highest posts of the republic, and that 
their daughters were sought in marriage by the 
Venetian patricians. At Torcello, further north, we 
should find reminders of the earliest homes of the 
doges before they settled on the site of the present 
palace. At the Lido, an island faced with sea-walls, 
where tourists go for bathing, we might see the port 
from which Venice once sent out her 300 merchant- 
men for trade and her fleet of 45 galleys for war. 

The sad loss of prestige in commerce was followed 
by continued defeats in war, especially by the Turks, 
till one after another the declining Queen of the 
Adriatic had to relinquish her foreign possessions, 
and at last undergo the disgrace of admitting a con- 
queror inside her wall of sea. In 1797 Napoleon 
seized the republic and passed it on to Austria, under 
whose rule it fretted till 1866, when Prussia, in re- 
turn for help given by Italy, demanded that it be 
allowed to become a part of the United Kingdom of 
Italy. 

I think now we can appreciate better both San 
Marco and the Ducal Palace, which are the first 
places visited by every tourist. 

The low, round arches of San Marco, the varied 
pillars brought from eastern temples, the unique 
wainscoting within of veined alabaster, the gorgeous 
mosaics that cover the vaulting overhead, all remind 
one of Constantinople and eastern conquests, and also 
of the cunning workmanship that was able to adapt 
foreign spoils to home uses and to produce glass 
mosaics of permanent colors equal to those of Ra- 
venna. 

But no pen short of a Ruskin's can set forth for 
you the glooms and glories of this Venetian cathedral. 
I commend you to his "Stones of Venice," rather than 

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to any feeble attempts on my part. San Marco is the 
opposite in almost every respect of Milan Cathedral. 
It can never give a sense of greatness and radiance — 
of outreaching and uplifting as does that; but it is 
almost overwhelming in its impression of richness 
and devotion. Be sure before you leave it to notice 
the row of statues upon the altar screen — the Virgin, 
St. Mark, and the Twelve Apostles. They are of 
marble — so my guide-book says, which does not lie ; 
but in my memory they are always gilded bronze ; 
and that impression must come from the reflection of 
so much gold and bronze about them. Look more 
closely at the alabaster wainscoting I have men- 
tioned ; see how a single choicely veined slab, by being 
sawed into thin sections, has furnished an elabora- 
tion of artistic figures for a large surface of wall. 
Look at the pulpits, the fonts, the great front porch, 
the long side vestibule. Try, if you can, to trace the 
Bible stories told in picture in the ceiling; and to 
count the various vaultings that correspond to the 
domes without. Be sure to cast your eyes downward, 
too, and see what intricate patterns in colored marbles 
are under your feet. Take a sunshiny time if you 
can to admire the Last Judgment and the Bringing 
of the Body of St. Mark to Venice in the mosaics 
of the lunettes over the entrance arches ; and if you 
have time, climb up to the outer gallery to take a 
nearer look at the four bronze horses. 

Why two span of horses should surmount a church 
entrance, instead of waiting decently at the hitching 
post or stables, I have never seen explained. Perhaps 
some of our sporting friends who give their favorite 
pacers several columns in the Sunday papers, may 
have more light upon the subject. Also, how they 
climbed to their present post, I cannot imagine, but 
this I know, that they are probably the most traveled 

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horses the world has ever known. They have seen 
the best that it can offer. History searches in vain 
for their origin and pedigree, and guesses at some 
artist in Alexandria who first attached them to a 
bronze chariot. Perhaps Augustus brought them to 
Rome, still prancing before their car, and Nero later 
set them up on his triumphal arch. It would have 
been a good time for them during that monarch's 
mad career, to emulate his example and dash in pieces 
their chariot before Trajan elevated them to his more 
honored arch. Here history begins to throw its light 
upon them at the age of two or three centuries, bap- 
tizes them into Christian service, and sends them in 
the train of Constantine to the new city called by 
his name, to show forth western strength and beauty 
in the eastern capital. Here, in Constantinople, they 
remained nine hundred years, no summer heats nor 
winter winds tiring their perpetual youth ; and from 
their station in mid air they might scent from afar 
the oncoming of Turks from the east and Crusaders 
from the west ; until Blind Dandolo arrived in his 
fleet and promised them a return to Italy. How do 
you suppose he managed to get them across his gang- 
planks and store them away among his galley slaves? 
still more, to escort them up to the outer gallery of 
St. Mark's and set them face to face with the great 
campanile? Rome, Constantinople, Venice; perhaps 
Alexandria before these. What remained of marvel 
or of glory? Why, next a great disgrace. A little 
man on horseback — a horse no bigger than they, 
and just of common flesh and blood, decreed that 
they were to go to Paris, and down they came from 
their high estate ; again across the gangplank and 
into the hold of a white-winged ship — down the 
Adriatic where they had passed six hundred years 
before, out into the Mediterranean that they knew 

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so well, out at the Straits of Gibraltar — the Pillars of 
Hercules these had been called in their young days — 
into a new ocean with the New World on the other 
side ; up the English Channel, and in at the River 
Seine, to be set up on the boastful little arch of the 
Carrousel, do honor to the horseback conqueror, lend 
emphasis to the horse fair that had given the "Place" 
its name, and be smirked at by the ladies of the 
Tuileries ! This disgrace they bore for almost twenty 
years ; then deliverance came. Again the gangplank, 
the big ship, the blue Mediterranean, and the gallery 
of the great Saint Mark, to stand forever in gold with 
that prancing step before the Last Judgment and the 
Winged Lions, like the four great horses of the 
Apocalypse. 

After labor comes rest; and we, having traveled 
the world over, so to speak, with these untiring steeds, 
will call our gondolas and sail the Grand Canal. We 
start from Riva dei Schiavoni, or Wharf of the 
Slaves, by the big pillars of the Piazzetta, and follow 
all the winding of the letter S under the Academy 
Bridge, the Rialto, and the Iron Bridge, to the rail- 
way station at the northwest. Every house we pass 
rises directly from the water, with foundations more 
or less weather-soaked in appearance, and more or 
less streaked in fading colors, sometimes with a 
mossy green toward the transverse canals ; all in pale 
shades of pink or buff or old marble, and most of 
them furnished with balconies from the upper stories, 
either hanging over the water or set in as '"loggie," 
and rich in carved balustrades or traceried arches. 
Occasionally the bold cornices of a Renaissance 
edifice are conspicuous; but the greater part of the 
faqades are Gothic, the time of the city's greatest 
prosperity having belonged to that period of art. For 
these buildings are, almost without exception, palazzi, 

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or residences, of the ancient aristocracy. The word 
palazzo, however, like the French palais, is applied 
to any handsome secular building, as, Palazzo di 
Giustizia, equivalent to our unpretentious courthouse. 

This "Canal Grande" was the Broadway and Fifth 
Avenue of Venice, and there are no less than seventy 
palazzi imposing enough to be mentioned in the 
guide-book by the names of the families that founded 
them; but many of these have been converted of late 
into museums or government buildings, and many 
more are rented to consuls and foreign residents. Of 
course, every one must see the modest dwelling of 
the famous Dandolo, the Palazzo Vendramin, where 
Wagner died, and the Browning and Byron Palaces. 
Also your gondolier will make sure that you take 
notice of one palace bearing a huge sign of glass 
manufacture, and will give you to understand that it 
is the glass place par excellence of the city, gallantly 
offering to give you ten minutes for inspection with- 
out extra charge. My Lady of the Guide-book, being 
bent on information, falls first into the trap and 
encourages the other seven to follow ; and when we 
reembark at the end of a plump half hour our hand- 
bags are the heavier by mosaic pens, gilded vases, neck- 
laces, beads, bracelets, and a lot of sample bits of the 
colored sticks of glass ready to be cut into mosaics — 
these last having been presented with great show of 
graciousness by the pretty workers, and acknowl- 
edged with coins far exceeding their value. The 
richer and the poorer we, as usual after such delays. 

A half a dozen churches, too, are scattered along, 
from Sta. Maria della Salute with its handsome dome 
and pillars at the outset, to St. Simeon the Little, at 
the end. But the greatest of all edifices along this 
canal is the Rialto Bridge, which spans it about in the 
middle with a mighty but graceful arch of marble, 

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being 150 feet in length, and so broad as to carry 
two rows of marble shops beside the wide central 
passage and the narrow walks on either side. An- 
other day we will go shopping over this arch and take 
beautiful, long looks from it up and down this water- 
way of palaces. 

It is approaching sunset now — that is, in my story ; 
for in truth it is late bedtime — and after dinner no 
one will be too weary to take another stroll through 
the piazza and drop in at a few tempting shops. 

Great things are in store for to-morrow and next 
day. Farewell till then. 

M. 



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XLV— VENETIAN ART. 

Venice, August 12 and 13. 

Dear friends of mine, and friends of the beautiful, 
be not in despair when the skipping process seems ap- 
palling. Count up our achievements so far, and take 
courage. All the history of Venice at one bold dash ; 
a pretty good idea of the topography, except that I 
have forgotten to tell you of the Dead Lagoon, which 
means the swampy water up along the main land, 
and the Living Lagoon, or water of the Adriatic ris- 
ing and falling with the tide, in which last our city 
lies, shut off from the sea and its storms by a row of 
islands called the Lidi. Besides this, a first look at 
San Marco with its treasures and its horses ; a sweep- 
ing bow to the whole Grand Canal ; a slight acquaint- 
ance with the Rialto ; and no less than three visits to 
the piazza, which makes us know it like our own 
pockets. 

Now what lies still before us? The Doge's Palace, 
the Academia, about three churches that cannot be 
skipped ; the Lido, and the Giardini Pubblici ; possibly 
the Arsenal ; and after these nothing but the shopping 
streets, stuffy, and fascinating, and more gondolas. 

We take the Doge's Palace first, while we are 
fresh ; admire its portals, its "giant staircase," and 
old well-curbs in the court; compare its Renaissance 
with its Gothic wings, so tracing out its growth ; then 
mount to the great halls in which doges and councils 
once held audience. 

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I shall not bother you with their number or their 
arrangement. Every one is gorgeous in carved or 
gilded wood or marble and in great paintings on the 
walls while overhead is an elaborate arrangement of 
heavy gold mouldings framing more paintings of 
renown. 

It is fully time for us to apply our survival-of-the- 
fittest process in selecting a few Venetian artists to 
immortalize in our diaries, and also to ask My Lady 
in Green what to look for in their works. 

In the first place, she attributes to them remarkable 
splendor of coloring, such as it was natural for 
Venetians to take into their affections from sea and 
cloud, from sunlight and palace fronts, from colored 
sails, gaily dressed sailors, and most of all from sun- 
rises and sunsets over the lagoons. 

Next she observes their delight in groups of strong 
and happy people, along with a bold use of fore- 
shortening and perspective. Gods and goddesses 
meet in mid air or come dropping down to mortals 
like unwinged birds ; Venice, personified, sits on her 
throne and receives homage ; ambassadors in robes 
of state appear before the stately doge and councillors. 

In the third place she marks a gorgeousness of 
dress and merrymaking that brightens the whole 
room where the picture hangs. Decorative pictures 
we may call many of these historic and sacred pieces, 
because the main purpose seems achieved by beauty 
of line and coloring, apart from the subject treated. 

Last, our critic says, notice their love of spacious 
backgrounds, be it the clouds of heaven, some open 
windows toward the sea. or the quiet pearl tints of 
walls and ceilings. No such conglomerate surround- 
ings of gold and color did they represent in their 
pictures as their builders put into the council rooms, 
unless in some actual indoor scene where truth de- 

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manded it. I cannot help feeling that some of these 
beautiful creatures about us are uttering a silent pro- 
test against the gold frames that try to outshine their 
costly raiments. Notice the restful contrast when 
you enter one of the smaller rooms finished all in 
panels of white, wherein the glowing deities shine 
unrivaled. 

We are sitting in the hall of the Great Council 
while we have our little art talk. It is over 150 feet 
long and half as broad — made to hold all the nobles 
of the city from twenty years old and upward ; and 
every square foot of it is as elegant as art can make 
it. From it open the great Gothic windows we ad- 
mired from without, and the elegant doorway and 
balcony toward the quay. Overhead, in the above- 
mentioned setting of gold, are Venetian battles and 
civic events pictured by Paul Veronese, Tintoretto, 
and others; just below the ceiling is a frieze of doges, 
more than threescore and ten, in pointed caps and 
mantles of velvet and ermine ; below these are ranged 
great historical scenes by the same artists, except on 
the east wall, where the whole breadth is given to 
one huge Paradise by Tintoretto — the largest oil- 
painting in the world, they say; with hundreds, per- 
haps thousands, of heads, which have been looking 
their prettiest and their happiest, their stateliest and 
their worthiest, since Jocopo Tintoretto evolved them 
from his brain or hunted them up among the city's 
models three centuries ago. 

For the Cinque Cento — the century of the fifteen 
hundreds — was the great blooming time of Venetian 
art. The Bellinis had come almost a hundred years 
earlier, father and sons, with their quiet madonnas 
whom we shall learn to love; Titian, Palma Vecchio, 
and Giorgione followed next, beginning their work 
with the century ; then Tintoretto and Paul Veronese, 

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with their huge canvases. My Lady Persistent and 
My Lady of the Star are taking these artists into 
their close intimacy, and declare that just from these 
palace walls they are learning to recognize the golden 
lights and glowing beauty of a Titian, the rich em- 
broideries and well-spaced groups of that great deco- 
rator, Veronese, and the animated gods and goddesses 
of the perspective-loving Tintoretto. So this morning 
has been not merely a neck-breaker for us, but a real 
pleasure-giver, because of the new acquaintances we 
have made. 

We cannot pass without a shudder the door that 
leads from the Judgment Halls to the Bridge of Sighs 
— an overhead gallery that had no approach except 
from the courtroom here and the prison across the 
narrow canal ; and the stairs that conduct to the some- 
time dreadful prisons — the Piombi, or leads, under 
the hot roof, and the Pozzi, or wells, a series of 
under-ground dungeons. 

The splendor of art and the horrors of cruelty side 
by side ! And the handsome broad quay, on which 
we look down, with merry tourists securing their 
gondolas, still keeping its old name of the Quay of 
the Slaves ! 

Did you take in the fact as you came up here by 
that beautiful staircase with the marble balustrade, 
that you were ascending the "Scala d'oro," or stairs 
of gold — that is, the ascent which only those aristo- 
crats might use whose names were written in the 
"Golden Book"? We are all aristocrats now-a-days. 
all who come to see far cities and pay our franc each 
for a sight of these architectural glories. So the 
world moves; and Venice adds to her treasury by an 
exhibition of her youthful portrait. 

Next, to the Academy, where I shall not keep you 
long, because a whole day would be quite too short, 

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EIGHT WEEKS 

and you may just as well fall back on a good art his- 
tory and a collection of photographs in the first place. 
Beautiful halls filled with beautiful works, mostly 
from Venetian painters, and arranged rather with 
reference' to good combination than to chronology. 
They impress you as done by men who loved to ideal- 
ize the real and realize the ideal — if that means 
anything to you ; quite different from the Hollanders, 
who put down actual scenes just as they occurred, 
with only a bit of artistic rearrangement in light and 
grouping. A Madonna, to the Bellinis, was a theme 
to be tried over and over again with persistent fol- 
lowing of the quiet, non-committal dignity once es- 
tablished for her ; but with a constant striving toward 
some greater excellence in pose or coloring. Tin- 
toretto finds Venice always ready to appear in regal 
form, and gods and doges equally willing to sit for 
their portraits. Veronese delights to show the 
beauty of Gospel feasts on huge canvases that 
almost invite you, too, to sit down at the table ; while 
Titian, forgetting all the court beauties and artist 
loves whom we see from his hand in other cities, is 
here supreme in two great canvases in honor of the 
Virgin Mary — her "Presentation in the Temple," as 
a child, and her "Assumption" to her heavenly throne. 
In the first of these, a long, large picture, painted 
to occupy a space above two doorways, and cunningly 
adjusting its composition to its place, you see in 
profile the flight of the temple stairs with the high- 
priest standing at the top, his hands upraised in 
blessing and surprise ; on the middle steps the little 
Mary in blue lifting her dress as children do who have 
admiringly watched their mothers, and going all 
alone to met the priest, a halo meanwhile shining 
about her. At the foot of the staircase the interested 
friends, especially her mother, Saint Anne, erect and 

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quiet in her veil of white, and telling no one of the 
throbbing of her heart, and with her a throng of 
old and young, so natural and so carefully studied 
that one could easily make acquaintance with every 
one. The old apple-woman in the foreground, who 
has no thought of priests or madonnas, but wishes 
some of the crowd would buy her fruit, is a charming 
foil to all the rest. This is a picture to feast upon, 
whether in color or in black and white ; only it should 
always be reproduced in comparatively large size. 
The spectator demands an appreciable distance be- 
tween priest and people to be bridged by the little 
Mary, Mother of Our Lord. 

The other picture, the Annunciation, considered 
Titian's masterwork, and painted at about the middle 
of his ninety years of life — is full of the vigor of 
great art and great thought. 

The Virgin in mid air, filled with the bliss of the 
heavenly vision above her, her grave clothes changed 
to robes of red, angels her attendants, lifts her hands 
in an expression of joy realized and of a weight of 
sorrow and dread and death overcome; — "burst from 
the bonds of death," seems to express the thought in 
the artist's mind. Below, the eager disciples, amazed, 
confounded, between a desire to hold their leader 
back and a half longing to be taken up with her, also 
lift their hands and arms — strong fishermen's arms, 
arms ready for the world's battle ; you fancy that you 
see the play of the muscles and the movement upward 
toward the skies. This, too, is a picture to study and 
to love. But in the photograph you miss the power- 
ful coloring, the red of love and suffering that Titian 
did so well. 

In sculpture Venice has no great names except that 
of Canova of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, 
of whom she is justly proud. We shall make our 

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best acquaintance with him through his tomb in the 
Church of the Frari. 

Of the three churches on our list, this of the Frari 
is one, in the heart of the city, west from the Rialto ; 
San Giovanni e Paolo, the burial place of the doges, 
is not far to the northeast of the Piazza; and Santa 
Maria Formosa lies still nearer, in the same direction. 

For the first we take a gondola, or two of them if 
we all go together, remembering to make our bargain 
in advance. In general we meet nothing but honesty 
in this land. Cabmen and gondoliers, however, have 
very indefinite ideas on that subject, all the continent 
over, which I naturally lay to a long continued 
practice of feeing. If a pourboire is regularly to 
accompany the legal tariff, how should this do other- 
wise than leave a man's mind in a cloudy state as to 
his dues ? Is he sure that the pourboire will be forth- 
coming? How much generosity can he expect? 
Would it not be safer to include the fee in the price ; 
or else to make the trip long enough to insure a good 
round sum? Oh, I can see a dozen ways in which 
feed employees are tempted to be dishonest, either in 
their charges or in their service ; and I attribute our 
annoyance of this kind to total depravity — not of 
the individuals, but of the feeing system. 

Our gondolier, in this case, sets us down with no 
altercation, near our church door, giving a despairing 
look at our fee which is large enough to preclude a 
plea for more ; and we devote our ten minutes' stay 
to the three great objects of interest — the Pesaro 
Madonna of Titian and the tombs of the great painter 
and of the Sculptor Canova. 

The Madonna, which was painted for the noble 
family of Pesaro, introduces the donors as wor- 
shipers of the Virgin and child, along with saints 
of various ages and climes. Never did Titian achieve 

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a more graceful and picturesque grouping in a relig- 
ious piece. The huge pillars of the background, with 
clouds behind, and angels on a cloud in front, give 
the effect of immensity ; the Madonna in sweet, 
proud motherhood, although sitting on high, still 
bending familiarly for intercourse with her wor- 
shipers, the precious child accepting half shyly the 
admiring devotion of St. Francis ; St. Peter at his 
big book ; the Pesaro family and their slaves on their 
knees — the whole is a treasure which I hope you may 
some day enjoy. 

At the same time look for Bellini's beautiful altar- 
piece in three sections in one of the transepts, which 
we could not see on account of repairs in the church ; 
then, on either side of the nave, facing each other, 
compare the two great tombs, both in marble — 
Titian's a kind of triumphal arch with his greatest 
paintings in bas-relief, and the artist himself in statue 
before them ; Canova's, a pyramid tomb with a pro- 
cession of marble mourners approaching its door, 
Venice herself, in marble veil, bearing the precious 
urn, the winged lion mourning at the other side, and 
the angel of death with torch inverted. This tomb 
Canova had designed for the great Titian when he 
was called himself to go in at the dark door, and his 
fellow citizens decreed that the veiled Venice and 
the lion should mourn for him. So this second, and 
entirely different tomb was erected for the great 
painter. 

In the Church of San Giovanni e Paolo — like the 
Frari, a large and elegant building — there is a great 
collection of the costly tombs of the doges, of more 
or less historic value and good taste. One cannot 
expect to remember them after a single visit, but only 
to add to one's general impression of the aristocracy 
and wealth of ancient Venice. 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



In Santa Maria Formosa, where we ran up against 
a most inconvenient custom of closing all churches 
for an hour or two at noon, we finally succeeded in 
gaining admittance to look upon the Santa Barbara 
of Palma Vecchio. It was worth the peril of sun- 
stroke which we had risked while lingering on the 
church piazza and stirring up sleeping workmen and 
dining neighbors in our attempts at discovering the 
why and the when of the closed doors. Read the 
story of Sta. Barbara of the fourth century ; how she 
was shut up in a tower by her pagan father to hide 
her beauty from men ; how she incurred his wrath 
by opening in it three windows to symbolize the 
Trinity, of which she had learned from a holy hermit ; 
how her father persecuted and finally murdered her 
for her faith's sake, but how she was never afraid; 
and then look at her standing tall and fearless before 
her tower, one foot upon a cannon to symbolize that 
she is the patroness of soldiers and all who are in 
peril ; a princess' coronet on her brow ; the martyr's 
palm branch in her hand, and the red cloak and flow- 
ing robe of Palma Vecchio's painting somehow fitting 
in, as body should to soul, to express the beauty and 
the bravery of this ancient early saint. She it is who 
kneels with face downcast before the Mother and 
Child in the Sistine Madonna. Raphael has shown 
her who feared no rivalry in beauty and no superior 
power in man, abashed before the vision of the infant 
Christ. 

Just one long look at this saint never to be for- 
gotten, and then away across the hot piazza, over a 
bridge at the left, down a grimy street — choose the 
right turn at this corner, then another bridge, a line 
of shops, an archway in front of us, and here we come 
out on the Piazza San Marco, and know just how 
far we are from our hotel, and how late for lunch in 



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EIGHT LANDS IN 



the eyes of our major-domo. The sleeping nooners 
all along- the way are beginning to rouse themselves 
and think of money to be earned or begged. 

Do you know how an Italian of the streets can 
sleep? I mean, a workman or a beggar? Given a 
piece of pavement, a church step, a projecting ledge 
of a foundation wall, and he will furnish all the other 
essentials for a delicious slumber. In shade or in sun, 
according to the demands of the season, he sleeps the 
sleep of the just, unless some traveler comes by from 
whom he has a chance of obtaining a penny. "The 
land of the outstretched hand." Verily, so we are 
finding it in spite of the fact that mendicity is sup- 
posed to have been done away with. Not that in- 
numerable beggars abound, but that innumerable little 
services call for fees, and that every child of a certain 
class grows up to the practice of putting out its hand 
for a small reward. Given, a tourist looking for a 
church, or perhaps unaware that an interesting church 
is near at hand, and at once children spring up from 
the pavement in groups eager to show you that 
church. If you accept their services you have to 
single out which one to pay or else waste your sub- 
stance on many ; if you refuse, which their pertinacity 
generally inclines you to do, they have no hesitation 
in expressing their disapprobation, and in some 
places you find a little stone gently thrown after you. 
In Venice there are no stones to throw. 

Half of us visited the Lido, and half the Giardini 
Pubblici, in both which places it seemed good to see 
grass and trees once more. Both these are to be 
found in hotel courts and palace grounds, but not 
in any streets or squares. The Venetians, loving 
flowers and vines, make up the loss as far as may be 
by little roof gardens, potted plants, and creepers 
that start from window boxes. We stooped to the 

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use of that abomination, the steam launch, which 
puffs, puffs, to the disgust of outsiders, while it gives 
a quick and refreshing outing to those on board. 

We all of us went up and down the shopping rows, 
over the shop-loaded Rialto, down to the market halls 
on the other side, where barges come in from the 
country with baskets of salads, pyramids of red 
tomatoes, bags of potatoes, a splendid showing of 
pease and beans and squashes, with no end of flowers ; 
we have admired the hammered copper and wrought 
brass that we cannot carry with us ; have invested in 
such laces and embroideries as our purses and grips 
permitted, and, in general, feel at home in Venice as 
a woman only can in any place after a few rounds of 
shopping. We have been treated courteously every- 
where, and have found almost everywhere "prezzi 
fissi" — fixed prices — in contrast to the bargaining 
once in vogue. 

The black shawl of the middle-class women has 
won our hearts, although it is appalling to see any 
wrap in this August heat. Of texture varying from 
merino to gauze, but always of a size to cover the 
most of a woman's dress, always finished with a very 
deep silk fringe, and worn pointed — it furnishes the 
"cloak of charity" that makes any woman or girl 
ready for the street. With it she needs no hat or 
gloves, no street suit, or afternoon dress. Without it 
she would feel indecently exposed, even in this torrid 
weather. Except for this shawl Venetian fashions 
have nothing peculiar. Every woman's hair is dressed 
like the hair in London or Paris; shirt-waists are 
the twins of those of America ; and the hats and suits 
of the higher class women are of the same style we 
have left in other cities. 

We go away with a delightful impression of quiet, 
beauty, and comfort. But we realize that weather less 



419 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



favorable might have called out such expressions as 
"damp and dirty," "mildewed and odorous." To be 
here at a time when a long-continued southeast wind 
should drive back the waters into the canals, send 
little streams up into the streets at the drainage holes, 
and turn all the city's sewage back upon itself— this 
might not be agreeable; nor, indeed, the opposite ex- 
perience, with some of the canals drained dry, and 
traffic uncertain. But for us the days from the tenth 
to the thirteenth of August have been all right, and 
our diaries are again flaming with red ink. 

That you may find Venice as lovely when you come, 
is the sincere wish of Yours devotedly, 

M. 



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EIGHT WEEKS 



XLVI— FIRENZE. 




FlRENZE 



O otuAdLoAj^Clw^. «^, 



Beloved friends: 

If you are minded like us, you found it 
hard to tear yourselves away from Hotel B 
yesterday noon. These sojourns of a few days are 
little epitomes of a whole life. We come as strangers, 
find a home and employment, attach ourselves to 
places and people, make a good many gains, and then 
the gondola is at the door and we are off on the silent 
river to other homes and other gains. We were 
heartily sorrow to bid good-by to our paternal hotel 
people. We exchanged addresses with the major- 
domo that he might look us up when he came to 
America ; handed out American stamps to the porter 
and his brother — the lad that can expostulate so 
volubly in his native tongue with his protesting hands 
upon his stomach — and almost caused a breach of 
the peace when we produced a few rare ones still un- 
canceled. 

How different the waterway to the station looked 
from its appearance on our first day ! We had learned 

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to love the tawny, creamy colors of the old houses, 
to espy the palaces from afar and note their pretty 
balconies, to mark every blossoming oleander that 
peeped from a court, every vine that climbed to a 
cornice; we are constantly picking out scenes for a 
painter's canvas, throwing the shadows right, bring- 
ing the bridges in for foregrounds, bidding the house- 
wives leave their tattered, party-colored wash hang- 
ing from the upper story windows. 

And while I linger over this parting, we are speed- 
ing over the Apennines on our way to Florence. 

As we passed through Bologna we talked about 
Raphael's Saint Cecilia, and about the painters of the 
Eclectic School which had its headquarters there a 
century later than the great masters — the Caracci, 
Guido Reni, Guercino, Domenichino. We caught a 
glimpse of the great leaning towers that overtop the 
city ; but not of its sumptuous colonnades. Of course 
we mentioned its sausages. Then we left the low- 
lands and began one of the beautiful mountain jour- 
neys of Italy. 

The Apennines, which make the backbone of all the 
Peninsula, average 4,000 feet in height — the altitude 
of the highest Catskills ; but in the south, near Naples, 
reach more than twice that altitude. We shall not 
find them always so attractive as here, where they are 
wooded to the summits, and open before us such 
brook-threaded ravines and rocky gorges, and vales for 
hamlets and such hillsides for gardens and vineyards 
as remind us of the Briinig Pass coming down to 
Lucerne. But there is no possibility of a cooling view 
of a snow-peak ; no blue lakes to look down upon ; no 
Swiss chalets. Plastered houses instead, with tiled 
roofs, and sometimes wayside shrines, and crosses set 
up to bless the fields. 

There are tunnels enough to rouse one's admira- 



422 



EIGHT WEEKS 



tion of Italian engineers and government energy in 
carrying through such a difficult road; but upon most 
of us they have the effect instead of a considerable 
exasperation ; and My Lady Bright Eyes finds her 
accomplishment of sudden closing of windows called 
into vigorous play. Pleasant Italian people are travel- 
ing in our car ; and as the compartments are con- 
nected by a corridor along one side, we have quite a 
little inter-communication; gentlemen and ladies, 
babies and nurses, all seem inclined to be sociable, 
and are glad to try their bit of English or to help us 
with our bits of Italian. Like the Germans, they take 
an interest in their fellow travelers, but are a little 
burdened with a sense of polite conventions. A whole 
compartment full of American women, not very 
young, but very jolly, is to them a show that they had 
not paid for when they bought their tickets ; and they 
are divided between a sense of awe at anything so 
unusual and a strong desire to ask us whether we live 
in Chicago and know their — I was about to say dago 
— friends. But I must be cautious in my use of that 
term, for I hear the Italians use the same most scorn- 
fully to designate their lowest class. I presume they 
have brought it back from across the water. 

This Florence that we are going to, the Flowery 
City, with the lily for its symbol and a name derived, 
they say, from the flowery fields in which it was 
built, may well queen it as the lily of Northern Italy. 
Beautiful for situation among swelling hills, on both 
sides of the Arno; distinguished by its cathedral and 
palaces, its museums of sculpture and painting, and 
its cunning artificers; proud of its history of brave 
Republican days, of great artists and poets, even of 
powerful tyrants — it offers us all the satisfactions of 
brain and eye that we should need for a six months' 
sojourn. We'll just take up our sifting process — - 

4 2 3 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



Travel Made Easy for People of Limited Powers — 
and get ready for the essentials. 

The cathedral, with its great campanile and its 
baptistery of the famous bronze doors ; and the old 
Franciscan and Dominican churches of Santa Croce 
and Sta. Maria Novella ; these three, in any case. 
The great picture galleries of the Uffizi and the Pitti, 
noting the Pitti also as a palace, and with it as many 
other palaces as we can. The Convent of San Marco, 
associated with Savonarola and Fra Angelico ; the 
Academia or Belle Arti with its old paintings and its 
collection of Michael Angelo statues and casts; the 
Bargello, with its national museum ; the Sacristy of 
San Lorenzo, with Michael Angelo's Day and Night, 
Dawn and Twilight; the Palazzo Vecchio, if we have 
time; a tram ride up to the terrace on the hills south 
of the river, and to San Miniato; another to the hill 
town of Fiesole ; — about here we shall have to stop. 
But with that list before us we can become familiar 
with the most important names, at least, and have the 
great pleasure of marking off each place after visit- 
ing it. 

Of the history of Florence and that part of Tuscany 
that acknowledged its rule, we will note only a few 
facts. From being a duchy under the Carolingian 
emperors it became by gift of the last duchess a pos- 
session of the Pope, and was thenceforth of Guelph 
sympathies, although practically independent. Dante, 
the greatest citizen of his time, was banished about 
the year 1300 for urging allegiance to the Ghibelline 
party — the emperors. About a century later the 
powerful but unprincipled Medici family succeeded 
in being elected to the leading positions, and became. 
for three hundred years, the real rulers. Some of 
them, especially Cosimo, called Pater Patriae, and his 
grandson, Lorenzo the Magnificent, were great 

424 



EIGHT WEEKS 



patrons of art. One of the Medici became Pope, be- 
trayed Florence into the power of the Emperor, 
Charles V., and got his own nephew appointed as first 
duke, so that under the later Medici Florence was the 
capital of the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, and under 
the rule of the emperors — later of Napoleon, of Spain, 
of Austria; until in i860 it became a part of the 
Kingdom of Italy. 

Dante was its greatest poet, Cimabue and Giotto, 
his contemporaries, its first great painters — the last 
also sculptor and architect. After them followed Fra 
Angelico, Filippo Lippi, Botticelli, the della Robbia 
with their glazed reliefs in terra cotta, Andrea del 
Sarto, Michael Angelo, sculptor and architect as well, 
and many others. Its greatest religious teacher was 
Savonarola, about the time of the discovery of Amer- 
ica ; its greatest secular writer, Macchiavelli, a few 
years later, and a century after him, Galileo, banished 
from Pisa, spent his old age here and here is buried. 

If we found Venice a handful, what shall we do 
with Florence? Rejoice in all we have learned of it 
before coming here ; make a beginning with good 
courage; give thanks that there have been more good 
and great lives in the world than our little powers 
can take in; and resolve to continue our acquaintance 
with this wonderful city in the future as occasion shall 
permit. 

What salutary effects upon our powers would you 
expect from our living in the marble halls of a villa? 
When we saw this address on our list of lodgings we 
tried to picture to ourselves the sylvan surroundings 
that awaited us. When our two cabs, with no hesita- 
tion drove up to this good looking city house, we 
guessed there might be a mistake; but the door stood 
an inch ajar, which we understood to be the courteous 
thing in boarding houses during melting weather 

425 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



such as this, and a porter within was all smiles to 
meet us. There were the marble stairs winding up 
to the second story — the balustrade, however, a 
wooden imitation with a thin marble slab on the 
hand rail ; there was a wainscoting all in white 
against walls of crimson ; there were copies of great 
masters on the walls. As we followed long and nar- 
row corridors to our rooms past little inconsequential- 
looking doors, as though they entered convent cells, 
our heels clicked over tiled floors, and we had a 
charming feeling of being in a new land. The rooms 
are large when once we are in them; large windows 
can be opened wide by means of the double sash that 
swings against the thick walls ; and when they are 
closed, solid shutters inside of them make it possible 
to keep out light and heat. 

We have reached Florence in a heated term, and our 
only chance for comfortable rooms will be by cooling 
off at night and then shutting the cold air in before 
the sun starts up its big furnace. In the rear our 
villa opens into a lovely garden, all its own. with 
palms and ferns and roses, and sundry glass-fronted 
libraries and drawing-rooms give upon it, much as 
though they were intended to make the most of the 
heat it might accumulate. In fact, a Florentine pen- 
sion looks to the cool seasons for its patronage, sends 
its inhabitants to Switzerland or England for summer 
delights, and takes August for its general month of 
repairs. The masons are now at work in our hall, as 
I can see by step-ladders and mortar-pails ; and it is 
because this is out of season that we find plenty of 
rooms at moderate prices. We shall have an oppor- 
tunity to watch the interesting process of repairing 
and freshening up in a building where a nail or a 
screw would seek employment in vain. When we first 
attained to living in old convents and modern villas 

426 



EIGHT WEEKS 



My Lady Bright Eyes began looking for fire-escapes; 
but she and we have learned that a solid structure 
of brick and mortar with tiled floors is a better safety 
assurance than a coil of rope by the window or an 
iron ladder outside. 

The owner and manager of this villa has his own 
table in the dining room, near his guests, and is served 
from the same dishes,— which is a paternalism out- 
shining that of Venice. He gives us points about 
trams and museums, puts his good library at our dis- 
posal, and delivers art criticisms and travel talks as 
occasion may present. Besides all these virtues he 
has one for which he deserves little credit, but for 
which most of our company bless him — he is an 
Englishman and the English language is his native 
tongue ; we can all say to him what we choose instead 
of having to say what we can; and we amaze our- 
selves with the number of things we can understand. 
My Lady Practical long ago announced, apropos to 
foreigners and foreign languages, that "she felt as 
though she were in a cage" ; and I think that we had 
all come to feel that communication by word of mouth 
was a kind of artificial process, too difficult to be gen- 
erally indulged in, and perhaps a little wicked — at 
least, not intended by nature as a regular dependence. 

Two trams start near our hotel ; and as the city is 
well cut by these electric lines, we hope to see it 
rapidly and well. We have already walked out to the 
barrier just beyond us — that is, the low stone parapet 
that takes the place of a city wall, and have looked 
across to one of the fairest views in Italy, so says mine 
host, and we can well believe him; for such a suc- 
cession of lovely hills as rises from this Arno valley, 
culminating in Fiesole with its villas and church 
towers, is not to be despised in any land. 

We have been in no large city so cradled among 
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EIGHT LANDS 'IN 



the hills as Florence. With these heights rising both 
to north and south, and the River Arno cutting it in 
two ; it strongly reminds one of Dresden ; and when 
you consider also the art advantages that belong to 
both places, you may well say that this city is the 
Dresden of Italy, or that the other is the Florence of 
Germany. 

But, alas for our evening stroll to the barrier, and 
back through the barrier park! There lay something 
ashen white, soft and heavy over the grass, the shrubs, 
the very leaves of the trees. It was the same thing 
that lay inches deep in the road, and made the little 
rivulet Mugnone below the barrier look like an 
elongated mud-puddle. It is a dry time in Florence; 
no rain for weeks, but daily expected, of course; the 
Arno so low that watering of the streets has been 
prohibited, and all the springs running dry, to the con- 
sternation of men and beasts. You know it is a sad 
thing to live in a rainy zone, as you may have hap- 
pened to do in summer vacations, and it is a lovely 
thing to have your home in the sunshine; but I have 
set down this in my note-book : "Perpetual sunshine 
must expect perpetual dust — unless perhaps it be upon 
the sea." 

At one of the city's sights we took our first look as 
we left the station last evening — the Church of Sta. 
Maria Novella. It was not very attractive on short 
acquaintance. To-morrow we shall probably see the 
cathedral and Santa Croce; and, just as I might think 
best to say a few words to you about a friend to 
whom I was introducing you, so it is only fair to these 
new churches to tell you a little of their origin, and 
of the good points for which I want you to know 
them. For new to us this style of churches certainly 
is ; and we who have been educating ourselves to an 

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EIGHT WEEKS 

appreciation of York and Cologne, or of the nearer 
St. Mark's, will look in vain for most of their striking 
beauties. 

First, then, we are now in the cradle of Chris- 
tian churches, Italy, and must remember that their 
original architecture was that of use rather than 
beauty; and that the type established by the earliest 
places of worship naturally had a sacredness for after 
generations that precluded radical changes. 

What, then, was the type, and what its origin? 
Basilicas, the tribunals and city halls of Rome, literally 
"royal buildings" — consisting of nave and aisles sep- 
arated by pillars, and in the rear a semi-circular, 
raised apse for the seat of the judges. The nave may 
or may not have been roofed — a court with covered 
porches on each side being a very usable place of 
meeting in warm countries. Such basilicas the Chris- 
tians appropriated when allowed by Constantine's new 
laws to have places of worship, or imitated ; roofing 
the nave, however, enlarging the raised platform to 
make room for an altar and also for those participat- 
ing clergy who constituted the choir. If then we go 
up to San Miniato on the southern hills, or to Fiesole 
in the north, we shall be able to see charming old 
churches like these, with polished rafters overhead, old 
mosaics adorning the apse, a crypt or burial place 
under the high altar. A solemn, restful, beautiful- 
church, you will say, but very simple on the outside ; 
for— 

In the next place, architectural decoration had to 
take time to grow, the great faqade having been no 
part of the half-unroofed Roman court, and no towers 
having belonged to it. The first bell towers, or cam- 
panili, were built beside the church, and it was left 
to the Romanesque builders of Germany and France 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



to discover that tower and church might be so com- 
bined as to far surpass the two structures when stand- 
ing apart. In Giotto's Campanile we shall see to-mor- 
row how great and splendid a thing a tower may be. 
In Venice the mass that was rising slowly in the 
Piazza gave no promise of beauty; but when finished 
would command your admiration by evident strength, 
and by the chaste simplicity of its ornamented sum- 
mit ; but here — well, wait and see. 

Again, and finally, the material at hand was that 
same indestructible brick and mortar that the Romans 
had used so long, and which they had been accustomed 
to turn to marble by covering it with thin slabs of 
this material and adding marble pillars and cornices. 
So the early church builders did the same ; and not 
having yet evolved the idea of decorated portals and 
outside galleries of saints, they broke up the blank 
white of the surface — a trying thing in a southern sun 
— by sections and panels of colored marbles, green or 
black, and gradually evolved a scheme of polychromatic 
decoration which we have never seen before. The 
mosaic work within was repeated on a larger scale and 
in set patterns without ; large mosaics were introduced 
under the gables, fine mosaic pictures were worked 
out in cunning patterns in the casings of the doors. 

After the Gothic of the north sent down its ideas 
about pointed arches and large windows, solid stone 
work and buttresses, the Italians still preferred to 
hold to their incrusted walls ; to use their saints but 
charily for outside guardians. Milan, you see, with its 
two thousand statues and pinnacles unnumbered, is 
an importation from the north, and has nothing to do 
with Italian styles. 

To-morrow, then, when we go to church, we will 
allow ourselves to give some of our thoughts to the 

43° 



EIGHT WEEKS 



house as well as to the worship, having our authority 
from the elaborate description of the walls and gates 
and choice stones of the New Jerusalem. 

Good night, and pleasant dreams. 

M. 



43i 



EIGHT LAXDS IN 



XLVII— CHURCH-GOING IN FLORENCE. 

Florence, Sunday, Aug. 15. 
Beloved farazvays: 

You have no means of protesting when I 
head one of my letters with an imaginary 
map ; but — advantage of being so distant — you can 
skip it all and I be none the wiser. Therefore 
having, from the very outset sounded the praises of 
skipping, I feel no compunctions at what I put in. and 
you none at what you leave out. 

The smaller part of Florence lies on the south side 
of the Arno, and the only thing we shall visit there 
will be the Pitti Palace and the heights of San 
Miniato. 

This river of a few hundred feet in width varies in 
color from a yellowish gray or green to the yellow 
pure and simple of its present muddy estate. It is 
bordered with handsome quays known as the Lun- 
garno this-and-that, and spanned by half a dozen 
bridges, four of which are centuries old. One of 
them, the Ponte Yecchio. bears a double row of shops 
which have belonged to the goldsmiths since they were 
erected in the Fourteenth Century; which again bear 
on their backs a picture gallery, the connecting cor- 
ridor between the UfHzi on the north shore and the 
Pitti Palace on the south. 

Near the river, on the north side, the core of the 
city is the Piazza della Signoria or Square of the 
Lords of the People, who were the same as the 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



"Priori," the presidents of the industrial guilds; for 
at the time when this name of Priori became preval- 
ent, in the Thirteenth Century, the ruling power had 
passed from the hands of the nobles, the "Grandi," to 
that of the manufacturers and to their leaders, the 
"Capitano del Popolo" (leader of the national guard) 
and the "Gonfaloniere della Giustizia" (banner- 
bearer of justice), who was president of the Priori. 
The exercise of judicial power was put into the hands 
of a foreigner chosen for six months or a year, and 
called the "Podesta." 

At the southeast of the Piazza della Signoria stands 




V^Iazzj- Vtcckio 
433 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



that noble square fortress with the lofty machicolated 
tower so conspicuous in all photographs of Florence, 
the Palazzo Vecchio; and close to it toward the river, 
is the Loggia dei Lanzi, also familiar in photograph, 
a large open portico where several fine marbles of the 
Cinque Cento and later artists furnish a free sculpture 
gallery, summer and winter. Between these two a 
court runs down to the quay, on either side of which 
are the "Uffizi," or offices, the upper stories of which 
are occupied by the picture gallery of that name. In 
the square stand the great Neptune fountain, and a 
statue of a Duke Cosimo. When you see him you 
know at once that he was not the great Cosimo, the 
dukes belonging to the later time, although he emu- 
lated his ancestor in patronizing art, and was the 
founder of the Academy of Fine Arts. But the best 
known thing about this famous square lives only in 
history — the great burnings that have taken place here ; 
the burning of the Pyramid of Vanities at the in- 
stigation of the powerful preacher, Savonarola, and, 
in the next year, 1498, the burning of himself and two 
of his monks. 

A street running north from this piazza has at the 
right the cathedral and campanile, and at its left the 
baptistery — a great triangle of glories, enough to 
make Florence famous if it had no other treasures. 
From this place most of the tram lines diverge, one 
follows the broad "viali," or avenues — that circle the 
city in the place of the old fortifications. 

This tram we took this morning from our hotel in 
the north, and followed east and south past the old 
gates and new parks, and the English cemetery, where 
lies the dust of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, till we 
reached the river and turned into the Piazza of Santa 
Croce. After the somewhat discouraging account that 
I have given you of Italian architecture we stood pre- 

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pared to be disappointed, and consequently were dis- 
appointed in the opposite direction. The facade of 
the church looked grand and beautiful in its panels 
of white and black and its three decorated gables over 
nave and aisles. It is a fine, proud statue of Dante 
that stands laurel-crowned in the piazza ; but -in turn- 
ing his face to the city he turns his back to the church ; 
and I am not sure that he would not have preferred 
the opposite position. 

Santa Croce is the Westminster Abbey of Florence, 
but not so crowded, and the tombs are set against the 
walls — not out in the aisles. So as we sat with the 
worshipers and lifted up our hearts with theirs, we 
were aware of the great men whose bodies rested be- 
side us ; Michael Angelo, Macchiavelli, Rossini at the 
right, besides an empty tomb to Dante, buried in 

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Ravenna, where he died in exile ; Galileo at the left ; 
and near us the marble pulpit of Majano, carved 
with scenes from the life of St. Francis. This church 
was begun by the Franciscan orders within the cen- 
tury in which their great leader died (1294) and, nat- 
urally, is filled with memorials of him, but also of 
John the Baptist, who is the patron saint of the city. 
After the service was over we went up into the 
transepts and choir and took long looks at the fres- 
coes by Giotto which cover the walls of two chapels, 
in one illustrating the lives of the two St. Johns, in 
the other the life of St. Francis of Assisi. These are 
great works of one of the greatest of early painters; 
and we may perhaps be thankful for a coat of white- 
wash that covered them for many years, preserving 
them for the appreciation of an art-loving time. You 
may go back to these as often as you can, and will 
every time find more in them and grow more fond of 
them. 

At the cathedral we found our greatest attractions 
on the outside. This group of three keeps one in a 
perpetual state of amazement. There is no doubt 
about the beauty of the exteriors. Statuary and bas- 
reliefs add their richness to tbe marble paneling, gal- 
leries and cornices, traceried windows, Gothic door- 
ways, and a great wealth of fine mosaic. 

The baptistery, the oldest of the three, was begun 
about the year 1 100, before any Gothic tendencies had 
appeared in architecture. It was the original Cathe- 
dral, and was called the Church of John the Baptist. 
In three of its eight sides are huge folding doors of 
bronze, which are the best thing you can imagine with 
their panels setting forth Bible scenes and the fram- 
ing of these a natural history of flowers and fruits 
and birds. These were made in the Fourteenth and 
Fifteenth Centuries. The southern door is the oldest, 

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made by Andrea Pisano — some say from designs by 
Giotto. It is delightful in the simple, candid way in 
which the Bible stories are told in groups of low relief, 
never more than three or four figures in a group. In 
1401 the making of the second door was offered in 
competition to the artists of the day and won by Ghi- 
berti over his elder rivals. With youthful modesty he 
followed his predecessor closely in the shape of the 
panels and style of the reliefs. For the third door 
there was no competition; and Ghiberti, confident in 
his maturer powers, planned and carried out the rich 
designs and picturesque reliefs, almost overstepping 
the bounds of sculpture, which resulted in those east- 
ern doors, declared by Michael Angelo worthy to be 
the gates of Paradise. 

Within, surrounded by pillars, galleries, and 
mosaics, and under a dome of ninety feet in diameter, 
all the children in Florence are baptized, numbering 
some 4,000 a year. So almost any afternoon you 
stand a chance of seeing a pretty collection of them 
wrapped tight in swaddling clothes and veiled with 
lace, in the arms of nurses and accompanied by inter- 
ested sponsors. 

The cathedral was begun in the same year as Santa 
Croce, and by the some architect ; so I think we should 
put down his name to add our share to his multiple 
honors — Arnolfo di Cambio. In the next century ihe 
main part was carried on and the campanile was 
built, this by the great Giotto ; in the next the great 
dome was set up by Brunelleschi — the dome that made 
Michael Angelo anxious to outdo it in St. Peter's ; and 
not till the Nineteenth Century was the facade finished 
after a competition in designs by the best artists of 
the land. 

The interior of the cathedral is not greatly impres- 
sive except for its size and coolness. Its dome is a 

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marvel. Think of some room or series of rooms you 
know that give you a length of 133 feet; swing this 
diameter around for your circle, fling up the great 
vault, and then lift the whole thing on high until it 
reaches a point of 300 feet; add a lantern of fifty 
feet above this, and you have wherewith to remember 
Brunelleschi's Dome. 

But when you begin your study of Giotto's Tower, 
then you will be ready to despair. Every panel below 
demands study for its bas-reliefs of trades, profes- 
sions, daily life; above these are niches with saints; 
then Gothic windows with carved settings, loftier and 
loftier as they rise, so that those up in the region of 
church-steeple height may not seem dwarfed as you 
look at them ; and above all a rich and heavy cornice. 
This is the tower of towers for chaste and elaborate 
beauty. 

After all this you can imagine that the torrid mid- 
day had come — that every tram we tried to take was 
bound for the wrong place — that there was a grand 
opportunity for studying maps and choosing shady 
sides of streets — that there was despair when we en- 
tered one where the sun poured straight down the 
centre — that some of us thought some others did not 
show their ordinary good sense as guides — and that 
when we reached our hotel we were rejoiced to find 
that blessed front door ajar. We had been thinking 
with longing of the palms of our garden. What a 
perfect hotbed it was ! We had meditated letter- 
writing in the library and garden corridor. How 
they steamed and burned! Our final resource was a 
good, hot lunch with plenty of ice in the water coolers, 
and then an afternoon in our dark, dark bedrooms 
with the wooden shutters just admitting light enough 
to write the home letters. But when, later in the 
afternoon, I found the curly-headed bell-boy in his 

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woolen suit asleep in his sentry box in the hall, and 
tried to draw from him the fact that the day was too 
hot for comfort, "troppo caldo, troppo, caldo," I 
could get nothing but "No, no, Signora," and a scorn- 
ful laugh. 

Good night, and cooling breezes to you through 
your cottage windows. 

M. 



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XLVIII— FLORENTINE ART. 

Florence, August 16-17. 
Dear people: 

Did you ever hear of the small boy who prayed 
short — "Dear God, please bless me, and do everything 
for everybody that needs to be done for them; for 
Jesus' sake, amen"? "That's the way I pray, mother, 
when I pray short." 

Well, this is a "hot spell," and a "dry time," and I 
shall "pray short." We've taken that fine tram ride 
across the river, winding up by long curves to the 
Piazzale, or terrace, Michael Angelo, resting our 
light-dazzled eyes on dark cypresses and dull-green 
olives along the way; we have then climbed up to 
that quiet church of San Miniato which I referred to 
in my remarks on basilicas, and explored the adjoin- 
ing cemetery. Italians set great store by their cem- 
eteries — I can hardly say by their burial places in gen- 
eral, for the poor have to be hustled together in com- 
mon pits, or else buried in temporary, close-set graves, 
which are emptied after some thirty years and used 
over again, the bones left from the former burial in 
quicklime being stored away in some assigned vault. 
But the show cemeteries are for the rich, and are such 
a mass of marble walls, marble-covered vaults, marble 
temples, marble stairs and terraces, marble angels, 
and marble men and women in marble broadcloths 
and laces, as reminds one of the old Romans, who 
made their tombs by the Via Appia a kind of accom- 
paniment to their promenades. 

We have also sped up to lovely Fiesole by another 
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electric tram ; and after an exploration of the cathe- 
dral's interior, and admiration of its old round pillars, 
we went on to the ancient Roman theatre in the hill- 
side, uncovered from concealing earth and rubbish, 
some years ago; sat on the curved seats, penetrated 
to a strange little chapel with a pagan altar, looked 
down on some huge Etruscan walls under those of 
Roman building and, beside them, on three small 
children of the land who sang a catch by which to 
dance — one girl in red picking up her skirt with bal- 
let effect, the little one holding hers to catch the 
soldi. "Un soldo, Signora; prego, Signora. Signora, 
Signora, un soldo, un soldo" — "a penny, please, lady, 
a penny !" After this we bought straw hats and straw 
bags of the country people's weaving; refused more 
appeals for soldi, and caught our tram in time to find 
that one of us had left a guide-book among the ruins 
of the theatre. The result — an additional walk among 
reminders of the past and some curious thoughts 
about the combination — a Roman theatre, Etruscan 
walls, a dancing maiden, a Baedeker's guide-book. 
After this came a wild career down the old paved road 
with a thought of crossing somewhere the more grad- 
ual slope of the tramway; beautiful changing views 
of the towers and roofs of Florence seen between 
hillside villas and over vine-covered walls ; water- 
melon at a certain roadside inn, the melon so abundant 
and tempting at fruit stalls and market carts, — so rare 
on hotel tables ; and last, tram number two, and a cool 
ride home to a late dinner, with this entry in some- 
body's notebook : "The best of cut-offs made on foot 
seldom overtakes the slowest of electric trams." 

In the mornings we have gone on with churches and 
museums. Santa Maria Novella, not so very far 
from us, grows better looking on acquaintance ; has 
a court walled in with marble that is rather fascinat- 

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ing, especially when one can't find out which gate to 
try for entrance, and of which policeman to get cor- 
rect information about hours of closing. "It is 
certainly open, Signora. It is not yet noon, and the 
church is open." Perhaps it was, but we had to go 
at another hour to find it so. Once inside, however, 
all our trouble was repaid, and we wanted to spend 
the rest of our sojourn there. 

The Dominicans and Franciscans were as great 
rivals as their founders had been friends. Following 
the example set by these, the Franciscans found their 
mission primarily in the preaching and practice of 
love and mercy, affected poverty in every way, wore 
the brown robe girded with a rope, and were the 
trusted friends of the poor; while the Dominicans 
looked well after education, produced great thinkers 
and writers, greatest of them all St. Thomas Aquinas, 
whose Institutes of Theology are still a standard in 
the Roman Catholic Church, and were generally 
patronized by the rich. 

Well, this Dominican church, begun some fifteen 
years before Santa Croce, had the wealth of the aris- 
tocracy of Florence to advance its building and 
furnish its decorations. It has much more elegance 
of marble pillars and gilded chapels than the other; 
and also a store of ancient paintings that, if possible, 
excels those. We thought nothing could outdo those 
walls covered by the brush of Giotto with his well- 
conceived historic and domestic scenes. But here we 
have two transepts that are unique ; both lifted up 
above the level of the nave and approached by lateral 
flights of steps ; and one contains, what do you think ? 
— that veritable old Madonna by Cimabue, Giotto's 
teacher, the Madonna with the Byzantine face and 
stiff hands, the conventional Madonna on a throne up- 
held by lovely and loving angels — a little hand pres- 

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sure from each, as though this, from an angel, were 
a better support than stone or steel ; that Madonna, I 
say, which was shown in the studio as a great favor 
to a visiting king, and afterwards conveyed in pomp 
to its permanent home in the church. All the city 
took holiday, and so great were the shouts of joy in 
the quarter where the artist lived that it was christ- 
ened the "Borgo Allegri." 

We can distinctly see the creases between the boards 
on which the. picture is painted; its colors are very 
dark, but still distinguishable after 600 years. We 
are glad that we came in the morning when the light 
is good, and that we have this transept to ourselves 
except for two scholarly Germans, who are quietly 
admiring. 

For certainly Cimabue's Madonna is to be admired. 
When you consider the Byzantine models that were 
his starting point, the staring eyes, emaciated fea- 
tures, and the stiff hands which it was almost sacrilege 
to vary, you wonder at the quiet dignity he has con- 
trived to introduce, and at the touch of love and ad- 
miration given by his angels. Just the immensity of 
that colossal queen and her colossal throne are a thing 
to impress one, and to show the thoughts that were 
in the mind of the painter. It was he who found the 
little Giotto making pictures on stones while he tended 
his sheep, took him to his studio, and educated him to 
accomplish what his master had dreamed of. 

As we cross to the other transept we go into the 
choir and view another double set of frescoes, the fin- 
est of Ghirlandajo's works ; and he is a great painter 
just before the Cinque Cento. Here again John the 
Baptist demands one whole wall, the Virgin Mary the 
opposite; and it makes one feel as though on a visit 
to the days of the Christian Era to be looking into the 
home scenes of Saint Anne and Saint Elizabeth. 

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And now for the north transept and the great 
Orcagna. Above the window facing you are angels 
blowing long trumpets to call the dead to judgment; 
for that you will have to depend mostly on pho- 
tograph, because the light blinds instead of helping 
you. On the right and left walls are immense repre- 
sentations of the Inferno and the Paradiso, reaching 
from wainscoting to vault. No one could study the 
former except he were interested as a medical student 
is in a dissecting room ; for what art can there ever 
be in depicting as realistically as possible the suffer- 
ings of the lost? That is what Bernardo Orcagna 
did, Giotto's pupil, thinking, I suppose, to do God 
service and win a fine salary by frightening sinners 
into the kingdom. I am sure he was a poor sleeper, 
for when he did not lie awake at night thinking up 
his devils and flames and boiling pots, he must have 
been frightened awake by the terror of those that he 
had already conjured into frescoes. His brother 
Andrea, however, treated the opposite theme, and how 
wonderfully he thought it out ! Our Lord and His 
Mother enthroned in the middle, and below them two 
archangels — these four colossal ; and on both sides 
rows and rows of the glorified, each with harp or 
lute or viol, each with haloed head, many of them 
with faces turned to the Christ, some looking out 
into the world; a few angel forms near the thrones 
blowing upon their long trumpets ; and then in the 
foreground below a throng of the redeemed, who have 
just come up from their graves, have not yet received 
their aureoles, and are greeting one another with 
bliss and surprise upon their faces. Andrea must 
have been a saintly man to do it ; but do you think he 
had a human bit of satisfaction in thinking how his 
brother's horrors would compel tender souls to turn 
to him for consolation? 

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And now from this full feast we are conducted by a 
ministering monk through a gate into a cloister, and 
from there to a second, then down some steps into the 
"Spanish Chapel," which is a third full-fledged ex- 
hibition of frescoes. St. Dominic was from Spain, 
so the chapel in his especial honor bears this Spanish 
name ; and the cloister by which it is reached, having 
been decorated with a series of scenes in greenish 
gray, goes by the name of the Green Cloister. In 
Dresden there is a Green Vault. These two sound a 
little alike; but there is a mighty difference between 
that green-tapestried treasury of diamonds and bric- 
a-brac and this old cloister with the faded forms of 
beauty. In the Spanish Chapel you will see on one 
side St. Thomas Aquinas among prophets, angels and 
saints, with all the Christian Virtues in female loveli- 
ness below him; opposite, the Church Militant and 
Triumphant ; in the middle, great saints and little men 
coming in procession to the heaven-high gate where 
Peter holds the keys ; above, the glories of Heaven ; 
below, the lambs of the flock snugly laid up on a table 
while the Dominicans, as spotted dogs, drive off the 
heretic wolves. This last was a grand joke with the 
order, a play upon their name as meaning the Lord's 
dogs — Domini canes. On the other walls are the 
Crucifixion and the "Preaching to the Souls in Prison." 
This last is a favorite theme with the old painters, 
representing Christ descended into Hell and bringing 
up thence loyal souls who had been awaiting from 
Old Testament times the coming of their Redeemer. 
If you are as fortunate as we were, you will find in 
this chapel a delightful American woman just full of 
the symbolic meanings on these four walls, and more 
than happy to spill over some of her superabundance 
into your empty vessels. 

If you have an hour left before that ever-impending 
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EIGHT WEEKS 



lunch, you may make your way to San Lorenzo and 
see two remarkable chapels in its crypt; the first all 
colored marbles, inlaid floors, gilded tombs to do honor 
to the Medicean dukes ; the second, severely simple in 
white and gray, with two tombs to earlier Medici which 
alone would have established Michael Angelo's fame — 
his "Day and Night," "Morning and Evening" ; strong 
men rousing themselves to action, strong women sink- 
ing into sleep. Do you know the charming story about 
this dead asleep woman, Night? When the statue was 
put on exhibition a contemporary poet attached this 
pretty compliment to it: 

La notte che tu vedi in si dolci atti 
Dormire, fu da un Angelo scolpita. 
In questo sasso, e perche dorme ha vita, 
Destala, se no'l credi, e parleratti. 

Night, whom you see in these soft attitudes 
Asleep, was by an Angel sculptured 
In this stone, and because she sleeps she has life. 
Touch her, if you do not believe it, and she will speak 
to you. 

But the sculptor, who was eating out his soul fcr 
grief of his land betrayed and its liberties sold, wrote 
this stanza in return : 

Grato mi e'l sonno e piu l'esser di sasso, 
Mentre che'l danno e la vergogna dura. 
Non veder, non sentir mi e gran ventura. 
Pero non me destar ; deh ! parla basso. 

Grateful to me is sleep, still more so to be of stone 
While ruin and shame endure. 

Not to see, not to feel is to me great good fortune ; 
Therefore touch me not ; I pray you, speak low ! 

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After this visit you must go to the Belle Arti and 
see the sculptor's colossal David, the one that for 
three centuries stood as warden at the Palazzo Vec- 
chio portal — now housed under the cupola of a mu- 
seum with all Michael Angelo's other creations, slaves, 
pietas, Moses, set up around him in plaster casts. 
This David goes by the name of "II Gigante." Prob- 
ably you know the tale of his origin ; how the great 
master — then a youth in his twenties — cut this young 
athlete from a block of marble that had been rejected 
on account of its unavailable shape. Most sculptors, 
I have been told, after making their finished model in 
clay, set their skilled workmen to clipping cautiously 
away until the rough figure appears and then do the 
last careful cutting themselves. Not so Michael 
Angelo. He looked at that huge, unshapely block till 
he saw within it a strong young man like himself, with 
sling in hand and scorn, and trust, and courage in his 
face; and then he took his chisel and mallet and re- 
leased the imprisoned hero. 

While you are at the Belle Arti you will also go in 
among the old, old painters long enough to see an- 
other of Cimabue's Madonnas on a different throne, 
and Fabriano's worshipping Magi in gilded crowns 
and cloaks, and some choice Filippo Lippis and Angel- 
icos and Botticellis. But I think it is, on the whole, 
better to study these ancients after you have learned 
to love those whose standards are a little nearer our 
own. You may remember that the two great galleries 
still lie before us; and if to-morrow we can make a 
journey through them, we shall be ready to take our 
leave of Florence, — as I now do for the night from 
you. 

M. 



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XLIX— FIRENZE LA BELLA. 

Florence, August 18. 

Dear and overcrowded friends: 

I confess that Florence ought not to be visited at 
a season when the middle of the day must be spent 
within doors. We hardly more than make a beginning 
of our sight-seeing by noon ; and towards night, what 
can one do but haunt the shops and cool off in the 
trams? 

This morning, however, we will walk the whole 
length of the two great galleries and see what we 
may. I have mentioned before the great names to be 
noted here; and so far as they are unfamiliar to you, 
I recommend a method I have found useful in the 
past. Get from an art history or some reliable friend 
a catchword or two for the characteristics of each 
artist, and stick to that word till your own observation 
corroborates it, or changes and adds to it. Thus I 
remember how "musical angels" helped me out with 
Fra Angelico, "fluttering drapery" with Botticelli, 
and various other terms which I have now forgotten, 
with other painters. Next, if I may give advice, try 
to love a painter for the superior qualities which he 
has, instead of spending your whole time in trying to 
account for those which he has not. Most of them 
are not beyond criticism ; but most of them can also 
do some one thing better than any of their fellows, 
and immeasurably better than you or I could do it. 
With some it is coloring, with others, grouping; with 

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this one texture, and softness of flesh; with that one 
anatomy, splendid motion; here you find remarkably 
good perspective, there fine bits of landscape in the 
backgrounds; — for most of these Florentine paintings 
are figure pieces; landscape as a main theme has not 
yet found its place. In Fra Angelico's figures there is 
always devotion and music ; we know that he offered 
a prayer before beginning each picture, and I think he 
must have sung a hymn while at his work, so rhyth- 
mic and melodic are his angels. In Botticelli's people 
you feel the deepest sincerity and unconsciousness of 
self ; if their draperies flutter and their hair crimps, 
that is none of their devising. 

But here we are, at the Uffizi, with its tremendous 
stairs to climb — a lift, however, if you are willing to 
pay for it — its long corridors, and its score of halls, 
the walls hung solid with paintings, the floors well 
occupied with statues. You would better not omit 
any double-starred halls, however doubtful you are 
of their attractions; for you will be sorry when you 
go home to confess to having overlooked the Venus 
de Medici, Andrea del Sarto's Madonnas, or the mar- 
ble group of Niobe and her children. Be sure to see 
the Madonna by Fra Angelico in the gold frame set 
with angels. However much you may disapprove the 
Mary herself and the doll-like child, you can't pass by 
those heavenly musicians against the gold back- 
ground of the frame whom you will be meeting again 
in copy all over the world. 

Now follow the corridor of sketches and engravings 
along the Lungarno, over the old bridge, and up and 
down stairs till you find yourself in the Pitti Palace. 
Here you have only some 600 paintings to look at, 
but, alas ! all masterpieces, so they say ; and the palace 
halls in which they are set up, a study in themselves. 
You'll meet many old friends here — the Madonna of 

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the Chair, Raphael's Popes, Titian's Flora, the Ma- 
donna of the Grand Duke, and others. If you happen 
to remember that Marie de Medici, whom we saw in 
great display by Rubens in the Louvre, came from 
here to be queen of France, and that the first opera 
ever composed was performed here at her wedding; 
it will not make this mountain of squared stones less 
interesting. Perhaps, too, you can get a look at the 
beautiful Boboli Gardens in the rear, which are open 
only at certain times. 

Now if we glance over our list, I think we find only 
the Bargello and San Marco left. The former was in 
old days the residence of the Podesta, and has been 
converted into a National Museum. This term signi- 
fies, as we have learned in other countries, a collection 
of works of home production. But what else than 
this are most of the galleries of the city? So many 
and so great are the Florentine artists that they leave 
little room for outsiders. 

In this Bargello, besides the quaint old court and 
staircase, there are the faint frescoes of the time of 
Dante, representing a procession of the worthies of 
that date by their contemporary, Giotto; and in the 
halls are sculptures by Donatello and by Ghiberti, who 
made the bronze doors of the baptistery ; the bronze 
Mercury by John of Bologna, which poises on tiptoe 
ready to do the errands of the gods; and colored 
busts, terra cotta reliefs, wax models. 

San Marco is but a few blocks from our hotel, and 
we slip it in after our noon-day rest. But no, — the 
porter says it is dosed. "Chiuso ! Why certainly not 
till four o'clock !" "Chiuso, Signora, at fifteen hours 
and forty-five !" "But it is only fifteen hours thirty, 
now, and we shall have no other opportunity ! We 
depart to-morrow, Signore, and we will go very 
quickly, if you will let us in ; a little quarter of an 

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hour, Signore. Is it not so?" And how we speed 
along those sombre corridors to Savonarola's cell at 
the end, where, as Prior, he ruled the brotherhood and 
reached out to rule the city-republic; where, alas, he 
endured days of humiliation and discouragement, and 
bowed before this crucifix before going to his martyr 
death! How eagerly we glance in at cell after cell 
where Fra Angelico and his pupils painted one fresco 
each for every Dominican monk — a crucifixion often- 
est of all, to keep the thoughts of the brothers on sin 
and death and self-renunciation; but sometimes a 
prayer in the Garden, with the sleeping disciples, a 
silent warning against the weakness of the flesh; 
sometimes a Mary with hands upon her breast, receiv- 
ing a crown from her glorified son ; and once a Trans- 
figuration so spiritual in its simplicity that one ques- 
tions whether it is not the greatest of all treatments 
of this mystical theme. Against an oval of light, like 
a great aureole, stands Our Lord with arms out- 
stretched, his down-hanging robe adding to the great 
whiteness — no vision of the Father about him but 
what you can guess from the absorbed look of his face 
and the motionless attitude of his transfigured body ; 
Moses and Elias at either side like attendants fearing 
to disturb him, and the three disciples struck down 
in amazement and abasement at his feet. It is a great 
picture in a small compass. And what difference in 
character do you think it produced upon a monk to be 
ever looking toward a transfigured or toward a suf- 
fering Christ? Were there heart-burning and envy- 
ings at the times of allotting rooms? Or did each 
meek-souled brother accept his fresco as he did his 
daily crust of bread ? 

San Marco was rich in artists, for Fra Bartolommeo, 
almost a century later than Fra Angelico, became a 
monk out of devotion to Savonarola, and painted the 

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portrait of the Prior preserved in his cell ; and other 
artists put splendid works upon the walls of porch 
and cloisters and refectory. 

But all the time that we look and try to learn, friar 
number one is eagerly showing us the best — the real 
Angelicos — and skipping the works of apprentices, 
while friar number two is sardonically shaking his 
keys just behind us, and locking doors like any peni- 
tentiary turnkey. "Molte grazie, Signore, molte 
grazie ; addio, Signore" ; and with smiles, bows and 
coins not too small we accept our dismissal from the 
convent door, and take refuge for a few moments in 
the cool of the church before daring the blast of the 
afternoon sun. How familiar it has become to us, 
this close, cool, incense-laden air, these scattered wor- 
shipers on their knees, telling beads or crossing 
themselves at their favorite shrines ; this heavy baize 
or leather curtain at the door, oily from the hands of 
thousands ; this blind or deaf or crippled beggar who 
is sure to be lurking for us just outside ! All this is 
very unlike church-going at home ; and may it be to 
us and our heartstrings a suppling process, and to 
our eyes a surgical operation of casting out of beams. 

The clock strikes more than bedtime, and I am 
anxious to open those shutters and let in the cool, or 
at least cooler, night air. All other good and great 
things you wish to know about this city of the flowers 
you will find set down by writers many and enthu- 
siastic. 

To-morrow we start for Rome. Before we leave 
we shall see the housemaids leaning out at our re- 
ception hall windows and saying that it is much, much 
fresher — "piu fresco, Signora" — and we hope it will 
be true. 

Yours with warmest love, 

M. 



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A curious toy, carven in ivory 
And set in velvet of the Apennines ; 
Bridges, like clasps, across a flood of gold, 
Mosaic towers, castles of costly stones; 
Then roses all around, ablush zvith joy; 
Gray olive groves, and vines, and cypresses 
Against the rocks of old Fie sole; 
And great names up and down the streets; 
And up and down the centuries, great names, great 
names. 



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L— FROM FLORENCE TO ROME. 

August 19th. 

Now which will you choose, Beloved, when three 
ways lie before you from the great city to the great- 
est ? from the city of the lily to the city of the eagle ? 
from the valley among the Apennines to the seven 
hills on the Campagna, from the glories of the Re- 
naissance to the ruins of the classic, from Florence the 
beautiful to Rome the ruler of the world? Which 
way shall we take that will lead us with prepared- 
ness of mind? 

"All roads lead to Rome." "How is that?" I asked, 
as a child, and how that is, and what it means, I never 
appreciated till I began to realize the grasp which the 
capital held on every part of its empire by means of 
its military roads. They were always ready to send 
conquering legions afar or to bring slaves and tribute 
home. The deep-laid, firm-set road was, through the 
ages, what to us are our railroads, our telegraphs, 
and our steamship lines. In every city of Italy that 
we pass through there is some part of the history that 
touches Rome, depends upon Rome, causes us to look 
up to Rome ; and in every one some trace of the 
Roman road that used to be the permanent, outward 
bond of union. And now we, too, are bound for 
Rome ; and although some of us may claim that St. 
Peter's is the great attraction or that the Vatican gal- 
leries outshine for us all the fallen pomps, we know 
well enough that it is the ruins of the past that we 

455 



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must see, whatever we may omit, and that great 
Rome the fallen is our goal. Already in this rumbling 
train I hear My Lady Practical crooning to herself, — 
"This Rome that sat on her seven hills, and from her 
throne of beauty ruled the world." 

By any route we must pass through the strong- 
holds of Etruria, coming to the Romans by way of 
the Etruscans ; and that is good, so more of it anon. 
But now consider your choice. If we turn due west 
we may follow the Arno down to the sea, reach Pisa, 
the maritime city of the west, as Venice was of the 
east, the fierce enemy or valued friend of the other 
republics, and thence through Leghorn and south be- 
side the Mediterranean all the way to Rome. What 
would you not give for just one hour to see those 
four dainty giants, or colossal fairies, or whatever 
pretty epithet you choose to apply, rise from the solid, 
well-swept streets of commonplace Pisa? I mean, of 
course, the four that stand by themselves on their 
ecclesiastical piazza, the Cathedral, the Leaning 
Tower, the Baptistery, the Campo Santo. In marble 
that has yellowed like alabaster they lift superb among 
their work-a-day neighbors the classic elegance of 
their pillared arcades, a wonder, a dream ! Credit me, 
please, with several pages on Pisa skipped, for you 
are not to go that way, nor to see the deep-hanging 
candelabrum swing that set Galileo's mathematical 
speculations in motion, nor climb the slanting tower 
from which he dropped his plummets and weights in 
testing his new-found laws of motion. Yon shall not 
hear the haunting echo in the baptistery, nor guess out 
the old frescoes of the Campo Santo cloisters, nor 
look upon the sacred soil from Jerusalem ; for not so 
has the itinerary man decreed. 

But if, instead, you follow the Arno just a little 
way, and then turn south, you may pass through 

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Sienna, eminent among the hill towns, ancient seat of 
a school of artists, Sienna of the Mangia tower, more 
slender and beautiful than even that of the Palazzo 
Vecchio in Florence ; Sienna of the marvellous cathe- 
dral, more lovely in its fagade than anything you will 
see after leaving Venice. In Sienna you would look 
about the city square and say, — Yes, this is worthy to 
he called the most beautiful piazza in Italy. In Sienna 
you would come to know not only the artists, but the 
Saints Catherine and Bernardino, so that you would 
not confound this Catherine of Sienna, who had visions 
and lived in a hermitage, and persuaded the Pope 
to bring back his residence from Avignon to Rome, 
with that earlier St. Catherine of Alexandria whom 
the painters represent as wedded by a ring to the 
infant Christ. Neither would you confound this Ber- 
nardino of Sienna, who wrought many miracles of 
mercy in central Italy and has given his name to many 
oratories, with those three Saint Bernards who are 
beloved of the Church, Bernard of the Crusades, Ber- 
nard of the Latin hymn, and Bernard of the Swiss 
hospices. But, dear cyclopedias of art and history, 
neither are you to go by way of high-topping Sienna. 
Just pack up your anticipated knowledge and lay it 
away in lavender ; for the itinerary man, knowing the 
exigencies of this tour, has booked us by the shortest 
route, which is called "via Terontola and Chiusi ;" 
and as we never heard of either of these, we anticipate 
a mental rest. 

But first, we are passing through Etruria, the 
Etruscan land, modern Tuscany, and must keep our 
eyes out for some of those twelve cities that were the 
confidence of their mighty builders. A wonderful 
people they were that came down from the plain of 
the Po in prehistoric times, conquered the Umbrians 
and kindred tribes of this part of the peninsula, estab- 

457 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



lished themselves in the strength of the hills, built 
with huge shapen but uncemented stones that still 
appear in the foundations of mafry city walls and that 
have acquired the name of Cyclopean because it would 
seem as though nothing short of the fabled strength 
of the Cyclops could have handled them ; were masters 
in the use of the arch and in the construction of sew- 
ers; gave the three last kings to the little city of 
Rome, and then, matching strength against her, found 
themselves beaten on their own ground and forced to 
enter into alliance. So advanced were they in arts 
ornamental, as well as useful, that Etruscan vases are 
prized in every museum ; so ready to utilize the prog- 
ress of neighboring nations that they did not despise 
Greek themes and styles in decoration ; but so original 
that they produced an iridescent glass hard to imitate, 
and wrote in a language that has baffled the most 
clever interpreters. Their tombs, also, are a strange 
mixture of revelations and concealments, which we 
might study by stopping over at Arezzo, Cortona, or 
any one of the "twelve cities ;" for in the necropolises 
near all of these are the remains of subterranean 
vaults, sometimes in perfect preservation, in which 
have been found stone caskets or terra cotta urns hold- 
ing the ashes of their dead; also sarcophagi with un- 
burned bodies and articles of dress, ornament and 
food, laid with the dead for their long journey. Arezzo 
and Cortona, then, as we pass them, mean to us not 
merely some devout and eager painters of a half mil- 
lennium ago, but doughty warriors and canny build- 
ers of thrice that period of time. 

Are we looking out on the olives and vines of poet- 
sung Tuscany, or on the fortresses and tombs of the 
cyclopean Etruscans ? Well, they are both in evidence ; 
for here comes first this blooming valley of the 
ChiantJ. oric^e, a, lake, they say, this valley that has been 



458 



EIGHT WEEKS 



turned from a swamp into a garden for maize and 
cabbage and salads, as well as the more poetic vine and 
fig tree ; and here flows, or lies, the little River Chianti 
that, like ourselves, is undecided which way to go ; for 
whereas it formerly showed allegiance to the Tiber, 
and sent its waters trickling to the south, it has been 
induced to discharge most of them through a canal 
into the Arno, turning back to Florence and Pisa, and 
so makes a continuous line of water between the start- 
ing point and terminus of to-day's journey. But along 
beside of it, on the limestone hills, we see those lofty 
sites that attracted the builders of strongholds ; and as 
we whiz by one and another ruin of a castle tower, 
one and another swallow-nest of a city, close built 
against a steep rock cliff, we feel that we begin to 
understand the Etruscans. 

Later on we come to Terontola, and find it, also, to 
be a not unknown land; for it marks the northwest 
corner of Lake Trasimenus ; and My Lady of the Veil 
brings out that little fountain of history that she has 
always on tap, to tell us how Hannibal and his thou- 
sands, coming down from Lombardy and the Apen- 
nines as we have done, had passed Arezzo and the 
Romans there encamped — again like ourselves, with- 
out stopping — had then lain low along the hills to the 
north of this lake, waiting, listening, and not in vain ; 
for the Roman Flaminius, speeding on to overtake 
them before they should reach Rome, fell into the 
trap, marched between the occupied hills and the lake, 
saw no bristling spears through the morning fog, 
heard no neighing of horses or trumpeting of ele- 
phants, but became suddenly aware of a great troop 
swooping down on his flank and rear, laid down his 
own life to no purpose, and left the brooks running 
red with the blood of his legions. Strange sights we 
see as we look away to the quiet lake, with peaceful 

459 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



villages running down to its banks, and fishermen's 
nets stretched in its waters. 

At Terontola a line diverges to Perugia and 
Assisi, where Etruscan walls and tombs again attract 
us, and the pictures of Perugino and his school; also 
the churches and haunts of St. Francis, with whose 
life of love we became acquainted last Sunday in 
Giotto's frescoes at Santa Croce. We'll just throw a 
greeting that way as we speed by, and say, as so often 
before, "Some other time." 

And next we are at Chiusi, which as we might have 
foreseen, turns out to be ancient Clusium of Lars 
Porsenna fame ; and soon after we are trying to decide 
which, among all the rock-perched fortresses to right 
and left, is that greatest of all, that medieval refuge 
of the Popes, Orvieto. This city would be famous 
enough if it had no distinction but its cathedral ; for 
Sienna and Orvieto present the two most splendid ex- 
amples of polychrome facades south of Venice ; and 
when you want an architectural treat you will look up 
all the illustrated books you can find about them both, 
and then throw on your imagination the burden of out- 
stripping their best presentations. But for now, as 
Etruscans are to the front with us, prepare yourself 
to imagine a city of their building on this rock long 
before the world had heard of popes ; and a Roman 
conquest of that city in which 2,000 statues were car- 
ried off as booty ! There are not many of our ad- 
vanced modern cities that would run any risk of los- 
ing two thousand statues in war. 

While following up these exciting ancient towns 
with our guide book, we are wondering how they 
ever were supported from such barren-looking soil. 
Such giant pyramids of rock and clay and sand — so 
they look — were never in our sight before. Little rills 
of the same yellow color trickle through the valleys 

460 



EIGHT WEEKS 



and pretend to be incipient Tibers. How can this 
evidence of our eyes be consistent with the historic 
tales we have been telling? 

Well, in the first place, the yellow soil belies itself; 
it is the real stuff from which grapes and nuts and 
olives get their oils and juices. In the second place, 
it is August just now, and a dry time at that, when 
Nature is taking her after-dinner nap. And, last and 
most important, have you marked how many of these 
tawny mountains are speckled with black dots to their 
very tops — a kind of a calico print pattern, as though 
it had been stamped by machinery ? That is our first 
plain illustration of a prodigious work that Italy has 



-^ 



jJ 




( x \* vAWS J',' .''IF 










461 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

undertaken in recent years — the reclothing of all the 
barren land of her peninsula. Every one of these dots 
is a tree that has been planted for fruit or for timber, 
many of them in places so steep that you would think 
the arboriculturist must work from a balloon ; and the 
reason that all the ground underneath lies yellow as 
clay is because, after the thrifty manner of this land, 
the soil is commanded to produce double, trees above 
and grain or vegetables or grass beneath. All of that 
barren brass is just waiting for September rains to 
turn it into emerald ; and then you will begin to know 
how Italian cities are fed. If we were traveling now 
through some of the flat-lying plains of southern or 
eastern Italy, we should notice, as we did in Lom- 
bardy, how much of the land is cultivated in long, 
straight fields and gardens, laid out at right angles to 
the railroads. That means the same public institution 
of great agricultural works ; that fields long barren 
through neglect of drainage or encroachment of un- 
healthful swamps, have been recovered by the state 
and sold or leased in these sections now so conspic- 
uous, to the peasant farmers, who in turn have been 
recovered as well from a life of happy-go-lucky pov- 
erty to a state of diligent prosperity. Everywhere 
men, women and children are at work in the fields. 
The farmer does not aspire to the dress or the style 
of living of the townsman ; a simple home, a working 
suit for every day and something smarter for Sunday ; 
no head covering for the women but the ubiquitous 
kerchief, in white or in colors, that she- understands 
so well to adapt for warmth or for shade ; the children 
always helping in their small way ; every scrap of 
brush saved for fuel, and every leaf or root from the 
garden utilized for soups or salads — these are the 
things that make it possible to live on small invest- 

462 



EIGHT' WEEKS 



ments, and that furnish the "cheap labor" that is 
almost the only cheap thing left in Italy. For the gov- 
ernment, to do its great works, must lay heavy taxes, 
and sugar, tobacco and salt do a good deal of this 
revivifying of the land ; clothing and all imported 
wares are high, and it seems to us outsiders as though 
nothing but wine and vegetables were obtainable at 
low prices. No wonder that the beautiful vine, willing 
to spring from any crevice or cranny, seems to the 
people their one resourceful luxury, their food and 
drink, their appetizer and their assuager of ills. Wise 
men shake their heads and say : "Too much wine in 
Italy" — "troppo vino, troppo vino," "cio monte al 
capo" — that goes to the head. But it does make the 
hills to rejoice, this proud and laughing vine, that 
never is tired of well-doing, and My Lady of the Star 
declares that she doesn't blame those poor creatures 
if they love the only thing that lifts them out of their 
everlasting plodding. Neither does she blame them 
for taking their religion ready-made to hand, and for 
thinking that processions and images and lighted can- 
dles are just as much God service as Bible reading 
and the Ten Commandments; they are a kind and 
courteous people, pretty honest, too ; and they don't 
work off their ill-nature on their children or their 
beasts; so she is inclined to give them a long credit 
mark in her notebook, and to be pretty good to all the 
little Dagos, and the big ones, too, whom she may fall 
in with when she gets back to the western land of 
plenty. 

Whereupon, beloveds, we have passed this scorch- 
ing afternoon and all this serpentining whirl among 
the yellow mountains, and we are entering that rolling 
prairie known as the Campagna; the softly swelling 
Sabine Hills lie at our left, and My Lady in Green 

463 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



has offered a prize for the first weary traveler who 
shall discover a line of aqueduct arches along the hor- 
izon, or the dome of St. Peter's rising afar. 

Our good night greeting, then, from the city of 
the Caesars. 

M. 



464 



EIGHT WEEKS 



LI— THE NIOBE OF NATIONS. 




I dare say you'll not be surprised, dear friends, to 
know that the outgoing hotel mailbag was unusually 
heavy this morning. From many parts of Fairyland 
have we called to our fellows at home to look and 
rejoice in the bliss of our attainments; but never be- 
fore from such depths and heights as when we super- 
scribe our epistles with the name of Rome. Of course, 
all of our fountain pens needed filling, and we had 
not yet found that boon of travelers which now for 
two hours has enriched our handbags — dry ink; so 
some of us even had recourse to vile lead pencils in 
our zeal of correspondence. But now that we have 
slept on this astounding fact, that we are here, we 
have settled down to a practical and orderly disposal 
of the matter in hand. My Lady of the Guide Book 
tells us that for convenience of reference we will do 
well to assign our knowledge, as excavators do their 
finds, to definite collections; and she suggests the 
three big departments of ancient Rome, Rome of the 
Popes, and Rome of the Kingdom of Italy. But here 
again we shall need subdivisions, and ancient Rome 
can be taken in three parts: Rome of the Kings (753- 
510 B. C), Rome of the Republic (510-28 B. C), and 

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Rome of the Empire (28 B. C. to 476 A. D.). Not 
that she in the least expects us to carry these dates 
always around in our pockets, but that she considers 
it reasonable for every Roman visitor to know that 
this city was first built and ruled by kings, presumably 
seven in number, Romulus — a somewhat shadowy and 
legendary hero — being the first; that tyranny on the 
part of the seventh, Tarquinius Superbus, drove 
the young nation into republicanism, and that, after 
five hundred years of rule by consuls, tribunes and 
their fellows, these republicans killed the man whom 
they suspected of aspiring to a kingly crown — Julius 
Caesar; but allowed his able nephew, Octavius, to 
assume the very same monarchial power under a 
name that they had not learned to dread — imperator 
or emperor ; that with him, Octavius Augustus, began 
that long succession of emperors good and bad, who 
reigned ostensibly as the agents of a republican gov- 
ernment, but really as monarchs of almost unlimited 
power, until the time when the oncoming hordes from 
the north — those whom we heard of in Venice and 
Lombardy — deposed the last of an enervated line, and 
broke up Italy for centuries to come into a patchwork 
of duchies, counties and city republics. 

Of the Rome of the Popes she would have us know 
that from Pepin and Charlemagne, kings of the 
Franks, they received their first landed estates and 
power as temporal monarchs; that from the famous 
year 800 A. D. on, they claimed the right to give or 
to withhold the imperial crown of the new emperors 
of the north, and that these emperors, in turn, claimed 
the right of sanction to whoever was chosen by the 
cardinals as pope ; a charming, double-handed arrange- 
ment, or non-arrangement, you see, by which pope and 
emperor at least had a chance of always being in hot 
water. Under the rule of the popes, she would have 

466 



EIGHT WEEKS 



us notice that the great ruins of the mighty past, 
ruined during wars with invading barbarians, received 
so little reverence from their papal majesties that they 
were used instead to pave their palaces, pillar their 
churches, and, in general, to serve as quarries of mar- 
ble and sculpture — nay, even were burned into lime 
for cementing their bricks. But while they robbed 
old Rome to build Rome of the Middle Ages, these 
popes also acted as patrons to artists of the Renais- 
sance, and, in beautifying their palaces and churches, 
made it possible for the Michael Angelos and Raphaels 
to become monarchs in art. 

For Rome of the latest period My Lady gives us the 
date 1870, since which time the pope has retired to 
the Vatican, under protest, of course, and Rome has 
been the capital of the new kingdom. This period 
has been signalized by great activity in building, 
by the dividing up of old princely estates into city 
blocks, by great improvements of laying out corsi 
(boulevards) and piazzi, of embanking and bridging 
the Tiber and, most of all, of establishing a regular 
system of preserving the public ruins such as the 
forums, arches, baths and Colosseum, and of carrying 
on excavations where practicable. 

At this point came our carriage to take us for a first 
general drive about the city, and later I will report to 
you what we are doing and what we are proposing 
to omit. 

My Lady of the Guide Book has a pet scheme for 
locating the Seven Hills of Rome, and declares that 
with it in mind we can quickly know Rome like our 
everyday pockets ; which, considering that women no 
longer have pockets, may be true. She does not, how- 
ever, use this scheme tyrannically, like a Nero, but al- 
lows me to put it in for the help of the like minded. 

467 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



First, then, draw the Tiber like an uncertain letter 
S flowing to the south, and eventually southwest to 
the sea. Right against its eastern curve, where lies 
the one island of the river — the island which the an- 
cients walled at the southeast to look like the prow of 
a ship, and adorned with a statue of the physician god 
/Esculapius and his serpent (look up all that pretty 
story in your most gossipy history of Rome), oppo- 
site this island put the first and most important hill, 
which Romulus is fabled to have walled with those 
squared stones that you can still see at the base of its 
ruins — the Palatine, easily remembered from the pal- 
aces that gave it its name, and still visited for the sake 
of the ruins of the later royal dwellings, the palaces of 
the Caesars. Our history is well enough in hand now, 
is it not, so that we at once put these quadrate walls 
and their palaces in the times of the kings, six and 
seven centuries before Christ, and the palaces of the 
Caesars, in the times of the emperors, from the Chris- 
tian era on — these emperors having all prided them- 
selves in the name of the first of their line. 

Against four sides of this Palatine Hill, and in this 
order, northwest, southwest, southeast, northeast, 
place the hills that end with the sound of the letter n, 
and mark them Ca, A, Ce, E — that is Capitoline, Av- 
entine, Celian, Esquiline. In the space north of the 
last crowd in two wedge-shaped hills, 'the Viminal 
and the Ouirinal, and leave a little room between them 
and the Tiber for the ancient Campus Martius, or drill 
ground, where now lies a large part of the business 
section of the city. From the Capitoline draw a line 
southeast beside the Palatine to mark the position of 
the Forum. 

Of these all, the first remembers itself, as our con- 
tinental friends say, without difficulty, and the Cap- 
itoline, where stood the Capitol, looking from its pre- 

468 



EIGHT WEEKS 



cipitous cliff the length of the Forum, does likewise. 
Never mind the rest, unless you happen to be a teacher 
of Roman history and must; except for the Quirinal, 
which is the seat of the king's palace of to-day and 
is therefore used to designate the royal power — the 
government. When you wall in these seven hills with 
that structure of stone and brick that zigzags for 
eight miles from Tiber to Tiber, about fifty feet in 
height, and set with some 300 towers, you have essen- 
tially the same city that has existed since the times 
of the early emperors, except for the big triangular 
district west of the Tiber that long ago took in Mt. 
Janiculum, that vantage ground for Etruscan ene- 
mies, or any others approaching from the west. With 
Janiculum walled, it was comparatively easy to defend 
the few ancient bridges over the Tiber. This section 
is now known as Trastevere — across the Tiber. 

The earliest wall was the so-called Wall of Romulus, 
around the Palatine; the next the so-called Servian 
Wall, from one of the Etruscan kings, which took in 
parts only of the seven hills; the next the Aurelian 
Wall, which has been continued, destroyed, and re- 
stored, to this day. But one great section remained 
for the popes to add — Mons Vaticanus, northwest of 
the Tiber, made sacred by the grave of St. Peter and 
the church erected over it, and early provided with 
the immense Papal Palace (only 11,000 rooms, they 
claim), to which the pope now confines himself as a 
protest against the rule of a king in Rome. When 
the Quirinal decrees, that means the king; when the 
Vatican, that means the pope ; and if you who have 
never been here have a clear idea that the whole re- 
gion of St. Peter's and the Vatican lies away off across 
the river from the ancient city, near to Nero's awful 
circus which he lighted with the burning bodies of 
Christian martyrs, you will be in advance of many a 

469 



EIGHT LANDS' IN 



tourist who has driven about in cabs and tram cars 
on the very spot. 

Down through the old Campus Martius runs the 
Corso, and by recent changes it is being opened 
through to the Capitol, so that there may be a worthy 
approach from the modern city to the ruins of the 
past. Across it, in a down curve from west to east, 
runs a new corso, Vittorio Emanuele, which has let 
the light into quarters that used to be too crowded 
for comfort or health, and has sent a goodly sprinkling 
of trees and parks across the middle city. This is 
what Rome is working for at present, to revive the 
park-like effects that used to belong to imperial gar- 
dens and to medieval villas ; to erect modern buildings 
worthy the companionship of ancient temple ruins; 
to lay out handsome drives beside the well-walled 
Tiber ; to develop in the suburbs a city of broad spaces 
and handsome streets, while guarding as her choicest 
treasure the ancient forums and arches, temples and 
baths, that never will be repeated or equaled. 

Last evening we looked out from our hotel upon a 
square full of modern luxury. An immense fountain 
splashed its hundred streams to cool the air; colon- 
naded buildings curved to enclose the piazza. Two 
orchestras were discoursing classic music just out of 
one another's hearing; a crowd of well-dressed people 
sat at restaurant tables in the open, or thronged up 
and down the streets ; electric lights shone on all sides, 
and two by two the red eyes of cabs blinked in a long 
row, waiting for the little shower that should suddenly 
make them in demand. We looked down on this 
from a spacious roof garden where palms, japonicas, 
jasmine and roses seemed sociably at home. It was 
the luxury of the Caesars put at the disposal of every 
citizen. Once more, as on the eve of so many other 

470 



EIGHT WEEKS 



anticipated treats, we were seized with a small panic 
for fear Rome would not be Rome. 

But it was, all right. At the breakfast table no one 
was surprised that My Lady of the Star announced 
her determination to turn her chariot first toward the 
Roman Forum ; nor that seven other women proposed 
to accompany her. We quickly discovered which of 
the electric trams starting from our "piazza" might be 
considered the stellar chariot aforesaid, and at once 
began our Roman education in the art of politely de- 
clining the services of cabmen, of noting with ap- 
proval the driver who could speak English, and of 
entering into successful bouts with the ten small boys 
and their ten thousand postal cards that waited for 
us as we waited for the tram. Against such swarming 
attacks we tried various weapons — the refusal cour- 
teous, the refusal emphatic, the pretense of deafness, 
the examination of the cards, and the deliberate exam- 
ination of the neighboring hotels, trams, street signs, 
and our fascinating fountain; also, the purchase from 
a single vendor, while all the others began reducing 
their prices — twenty for a lira, fifty for a lira, two 
hundred for a lira, till we knew that they were offer- 
ing their wares at out-and-out loss. Finally My Lady 
in Blue solved the problem by investing in two com- 
plete sets, and explaining, with the help of our com- 
bined Italian, that this was final and that we were 
henceforth to be left in peace. Even those conscience- 
less peddlers saw the justice of the case, and turned 
their solicitations elsewhere. 

Through streets like those of any other close-built 
city we buzzed along, were dropped at the corner of 
Via Alessandrina, took a few uncertain steps to the 
left, and there beheld it before us, desolate, yet fre- 
quented; in ruins, yet carefully guarded; gray and 

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scarred and proud as we had seen it so often in pho- 
tograph, arches here, pillars yonder, small columns of 
brickwork everywhere, with broken bits of statuary 
huddled around them, or a general's bust perched on 
top; large paving stones worn from chariots we never 
saw; a well curb, an inscription, a foundation of a 
temple — all the history of Rome, it might be, written 
in stone and brick and mortar — waiting, waiting — for 
what ? Telling always of the past ; no future, unless 
it be the future of warning, to us who build better 
than we defend, to us who rejoice in our strength 
and forget our weakness. 

We have seen ruins before ; in England, Paris, Hei- 
delberg, Milan ; choice ruins, valued higher than 
many times their ground space covered with modern 
architecture; but never before have we found ruins 
as the centre and glory of a wealthy city ; ruins fifteen 
feet below the city level, protected by a strong barrier 
against incautious carts and pedestrians, and just lying 
open to the sun and rain — unhealed wounds, maimed 
giants, dead heroes. It is great, and it is pitiful. It 
is glorious, too, as though the dignity, the sense of 
having done well, of having played one's part and not 
repined, called out to us to have courage. What great 
works of building have not been inspired by such as 
these? What paintings and what poems have re- 
ceived from them their supreme beauty.' What mat- 
ters it to be a wreck, seemingly, if one can from gen- 
eration to generation raise the standard of all those 
who look on? 

And, with these reverend thoughts in our eight 
minds, we stood in the little office by the descending 
stair awaiting our tickets, when — an outcry — two 
bulging eyes and a rush from the ticket man — a child 
on the pavement, a cab horse on his haunches with cab 
driver shouting; something red by the child's head; 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



is it blood? Of course My Lady Bright Eyes was 
the first to take in the situation, to catch up the little 
child and mother it to her breast; and suddenly there 
was a crowd, the breathless child began to cry in pro- 
test at being mothered by the wrong person ; the 
brother clamored his right to comfort the little sister ; 
everybody explained in Italian, in English, in ges- 
tures ; just a tip of the pushcart, and little sister spilled 
on the ground; a cabman whirling around the corner 
had pulled his horse to his haunches with miraculous 
presence of mind ; we were all well, nobody was hurt, 
and with her red ribbon pulled right about my baby's 
neck, she was returned to the happy brother. But 
for a few minutes all the interest in fallen Rome had 
been diverted to one downfall of little Italy. Pretty 
well adjusted, that fine machinery within us, that can 
respond so quickly to the mighty voice of the ages or 
to the cry of the little child. 

We went down into the depths and wandered about 
for an hour or two without seeming to have made 
much advance in our knowledge of the place. When 
you take in hand the Forum, decide whether you will 
give days to it, and set every old building in its 
authenticated site, or whether you will admire and 
wonder, and then come away. Intermediate ground 
is difficult to hold. Whichever you decide upon, try 
to get an idea of a city's centre — a place for holding 
assemblies and carrying on trade, for worshiping the 
gods and honoring the nation's heroes, and shut your 
eyes occasionally to see the pillars lifted, the basilicas 
arise, the House of the Vestal Virgins stretching out 
its convent walls, the statues standing at the corners, 
and more statues of men and gods and chariots on 
high upon the temples. Then, when you have this 
original and best beloved Roman Forum before you, 
and its Via Sacra winding out under the Arch of Titus 

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toward the Colosseum on the left and the triple Arch 
of Constantine on the right — imagine this limited 
piazza, only some 500 feet in length, grown too 
crowded for the city's use, and add to it by L's and 
annexes the forums of Julius and Augustus, of Nerva 
and Trajan, just as our modern cities add square to 
square, and fill these, too, with basilicas and arches 
and statues till you have a semi-circle of forums 
sweeping east and north and back against the Cap- 
itoline Hill. On the other side of the original forum 
build up the Palatine in marble; for all its present 
brick work, so indestructible in winter storms, was 
once faced with marble, pillared in marble, and sculp- 
tured in marble; and then you have enough for one 
morning's labor, and one morning's satisfaction. 

Of course, you and we can't go over all the ruins of 
the city in this same way. The drive after lunch has 
given us a good idea of the beauty of the city as a 
whole, of its hilly character which has survived the 
century-long filling up of valleys by heaps of ruins, of 
the fertile gardens and parks of the suburbs, of the 
splendor of St. Peter's dome rising above all the struc- 
tures of the city, of the beauty of this little yellow 
river and its bridges, of the soft lights that hang over 
the Campagna and make visionlike the Sabine and the 
Alban Hills. We know that there are Baths of Cara- 
calla which show the immense skeleton of what was 
once the provision for bathing as a fine art; statues 
now all gone, mosaics waving up and down in the 
sunken floor, but division walls still marking the hot 
and cold chambers, showing water conduits and hot- 
air passages, promenades and grounds for athletic 
sports. These give an idea of what Rome furnished 
when five such bathing establishments — thermae — 
were open to her citizens. We also have had pointed 
out to us half a dozen different theatres and circuses 

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besides the Colosseum ; we have seen most of the 
eight obelisks and all but one of the six arches ; have 
passed the tomb of Augustus — now an open-air the- 
atre, and that of Caius Cestius, the pyramid by the 
gate of St. Paul, and, of course, the largest of all, that 
of Hadrian — now the Castle of St. Angelo. If we 
drive out on the Via Appia we shall see the other 
round tomb which we know so well in photograph, 
that of Cecilia Metella. 







But probably we shall divide our forces after this. 
My Lady Practical and My Lady Persistent will make 
a pilgrimage among these ruined tombs of the Cam- 
pagna and thread their way with lanterns through 
some of the corridors and chapels of the Catacombs. 
These lie in several suburbs of the city, and are a 
study in themselves with their niches — emptied of 
bones to furnish relics for modern churches, and 
stripped of inscriptions to enrich museums — but still 
eloquent of the courage, endurance and peace of the 
early Christians. No general belief in a power that 

475 



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works for righteousness was theirs, no dim longings 
for a purification through endless incarnations; no 
trust in elaborate ritual or in monastic scourgings ; 
but a childlike faith in the Good Shepherd, in the God 
of Daniel and of Jonah ; in the rest of the grave and 
the triumph of the Resurrection. All this can be read 
from the crude pictures of the early centuries. This 
was the faith that made them ready for martyrdom; 
this was the striking excellence that caused invading 
Goths and Lombards to covet their bones as they did 
the gold of Roman palaces, and that caused Pope Bon- 
iface, when he converted the Pantheon temple into a 
church, to place twenty-eight wagon loads of holy 
bones under its altar! "Rest in peace," "Rest in the 
Lord," had been the best that mourning friends could 
wish for their dead. But, to witness widespread for 
the Lord, to inspire to Christian heroism in thousands 
of shrines, to give hope of salvation to sin-sick souls, 
to reveal the early faith to an age of agnosticism — that 
is the mission that has fallen to them instead. A 
strange contrast our friends who drive out on the 
Appian Way will find between the Roman wayside 
tombs, eloquent of the past and of the love of kindred, 
and the hidden Christian niches, eloquent of the hopes 
of the future. 

My Lady of the Star will look up more about the 
baths, and especially tell us how the huge Thermae, 
erected by Diocletian, had a church and a convent aft- 
erwards put up in and from their ruins ; how the con- 
vent has latterly become a museum, and the old curve 
of the enclosing walls has given the shape to our 
beautiful fountain-centred square and to the curving 
hotel fronts upon it. Then we shall understand better 
why certain uncouth masonry is kept standing just 
across the way beside yonder dainty park. 

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I think it will be fair to put the burden of elaborat- 
ing those big tombs on the Guide Book Lady. She 
will delight to tell us how the mausoleum of Augustus, 
a marble tower without and green terraces within, was 
used first for that young Marcellus of whom Virgil 
sings, "Give lilies with full hands" ; and how, when 
the mighty Augustus himself was carried there, his 
widow Livia watched the burning of his body for five 
days, sitting with bare feet and disheveled hair among 
the Senators. She will also find out the height and 
immensity of the Tomb of Hadrian ; how it was 
adorned with three colonnades of pillars and rows of 
statues ; who was the first emperor to be buried there, 
and who the last; and how, standing just outside the 
city walls, it became a convenient fortress in the wars 
with the Goths, so that its statues were hurled down 
by the hundred on whichever party happened to be 
the besiegers; also, how it got its name of St. Angelo 
when Gregory the Great had a vision of an angel 
standing upon it to stay the plague ; and how, still 
later, by a covered way between it and the Vatican, it 
became an angel of defense for the popes residing 
there. She may also tell us how the Pyramid of Ces- 
tius was standing in the days of St. Paul, and how he 
must certainly have looked upon it, as we do now, 
when he went out to his death through the gate that 
now bears his name. 

We all took a brief look during our drive at the 
Colosseum and the Pantheon. The former was built 
by Vespasian and Titus, twelve thousand Jews, taken 
captive at the destruction of Jerusalem, laboring upon 
it. We thought we knew it by photograph, without 
and within ; but what a difference in our acquaintance 
after sitting a few moments on those stone seats where 
Romans used to spread their cushions! We touched 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 



the marble wainscoting that descended into the arena, 
we looked out at the blue through arches that were 
once a background for the 80,000 spectators; we had 
explained to us the great awning that used to be 
drawn above for protection from sun and rain; we 
could almost hear the roaring of lions in the ruined 
cellars, and see the emperor in his carpeted royal box 
turn his thumbs down in refusal of mercy while the 
Vestal Virgins in their veils and all the populace, tier 
on tier, thundered their applause. 

This largest theatre of the world, and St. Peter's, 
and the Square of St. Mark's are not very different 
in their length and breadth, although of three very 
unlike shapes. The huge travertine blocks that formed 
the outside are full of holes where the iron clamps 
originally securing them were stolen away in the 
Middle Ages. In the centuries of the Renaissance not 
only were marble mouldings and statues from the top 
and the niches appropriated by the more modern build- 
ers, but at least three palaces and a harbor were con- 
structed from materials here obtained. The dignified 
Palazzo di Venezia, the residence of the Austrian Em- 
bassy, is made of Colosseum stone. 

We had also a few moments in the Pantheon, the 
most perfect ancient building that survives in Rome — 
one great, round hall, a little larger than St. Peter's 
dome, with altars and tombs set round, and all the 
light and air coming in at the round opening over- 
head; a simple bit of majesty, it seems; but elaborate 
enough it proves when you look into its construction 
and history. The walls are twenty feet thick, with 
cabinets and winding stairs hidden within them ; the 
roof, now covered with lead, was at one time a very 
mine of bronze and gold to adorn Constantinople, 
build the baldachino of St. Peter's and found cannon 

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for St. Angelo. The martyrs' bones aforementioned 
were buried under its altar in the seventh century, the 
great memorial feast of the church, All Saints' Day, 
being instituted at that time. The festivals of Whit- 
sunday were at one time observed there with children 
dropping rose petals through the great round eye to 
symbolize the outpouring of the Spirit of Grace. 
Shrines and tombs have followed one another in the 
niches — Mars and Venus and Caesar giving place to 
the Virgin Mary and Raphael and Victor Emmanuel. 
Very impressive, when we understand its significance, 
is the low flooring of the mighty pillared porch, and 
of the interior, for it shows how many centuries of 
gradual accumulation from ruining and upbuilding 
this city has undergone since Marcus Agrippa set this 
temple of the gods five steps above the level of his 
day. 

To-morrow we shall visit St. Peter's and begin 
Rome of the popes, especially of the popes of the 
Renaissance. So you may expect about a thousand 
years to steal by between to-day's letter and to-mor- 
row's, and the odd years you cannot account for oth- 
erwise you may set down to shopping. Roman silks 
are very attractive, especially those striped blankets 
of raw silk that the Italians call coperte. Roman 
gloves are not to be despised; Roman mosaics are 
cheap and pretty, being made, like those we saw at 
Venice, of innumerable bits of glass fitted together in 
a bed of cement, unlike Florentine mosaics, which are 
figures of colored stone or shell set into a background 
of black marble. Roman pearls are also irresistible, 
and the more so after one has seen their beginning in 
irregular bits punched out of alabaster slabs and bored 
through the centre, and has been told what a vast dif- 
ference there is between a certain outer coating, rain- 

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EIGHT LANDS IN 

bow-hued, ravishing and frail, and this other, "See 
me now rap it against the counter," that can bear heat 
and hard usage unhurt, and that costs just twice as 
much as the cheaper. After which the prudent among 
us buy the second, and the poor the first. 

Good night, dear friends, and have an eye out for 
the dome of domes, which is St. Peter's. 

M. 



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LII— THE MOTHER OF CHURCHES. 

Rome, Aug. 21-23. 

And you and we expected, dear friends, to have our 
morning dreams rilled with church bells, with the 
chanting of early matins, and the splash of the foun- 
tains on the piazza of St. Peter's. Instead of which 
we awoke to the sound of the fall of Rome. A thun- 
dering, a rumbling, and the down-crushing of mortar 
and brick; a pounding, a crunching, and down, down, 
down, tumbling to the depths ; so it continued from 
the first peep of day till the broad glare of breakfast 
time. I think that Rome was likewise falling in the 
dawn of yesterday; but we were too tired from our 
journey to listen to such slight interruptions, espe- 
cially as they fitted in perfectly with what we had 
come to see. To-day, however, when we are ready 
to rebuild the fallen city and set up cathedrals upon 
its debris, we protest a little against this rising-bell. 
At first we think it some kind of a midnight orgy, or 
war of the elements ; wider awake, we connect it with 
that universal repairing and rebuilding just next door 
that greets the tourist who is out of season; a little 
later, as day fairly shines in at our windows, we realize 
what energy it implies to tear down masonry by half- 
light while the streets are unoccupied and dust-clouds 
can be endured, and what a tremendous self-restraint 
to do it without shouting. For here comes the traffic 
that belongs to early morn — rumbling carts from the 
Campagna drawn by long-horned white oxen with jan- 

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gling bells ; donkey carry-alls overflowing- with gar- 
den products and gardeners; contadini of both sexes 
with blankets and bundles on their heads ; cab drivers 
meeting early trains, pushcarts loaded with boxes, 
flower women making ready to besiege your eyes and 
ears and noses; and every living thing, from donkey 
to child, every creature except the white oxen, lifting 
up its voice in salutation. If it had not been for the 
fall of Rome you might have been still asleep in bed, 
and have missed this everyday gala procession. So 
says My Lady Practical, with her usual good humor. 
In visiting the churches of Rome you begin, of 
course, with the greatest on earth; but you realize 
that it is but one of five patriarchal churches that 
were, in the early days of Christian Rome, presided 
over by the pope, and of which all Christians on earth 
were considered to be members — St. Peter's, St. John 
Lateran, Santa Maria Maggiore, St. Paul's Outside 
the Walls, and San Lorenzo Outside the Walls. Add 
to these San Sebastiano and Santa Croce in Gerusa- 
lemme, and you have the Seven Pilgrimage Churches 
of Rome, to have visited which constituted the full 
duty of a medieval pilgrim. To be consistent, I should 
say San Pietro, San Giovanni, and the rest ; or else 
Anglicize St. Lawrence, Holy Cross, and the others. 
But some of these names have become so familiar in 
their English forms that the Italian would be an af- 
fectation. Of these, St. John Lateran was the first 
to be the seat of a bishop, having been so established 
by Constantine; and it bears the choice inscription, 
"Of all the churches of the city and the earth, mother 
and head" — Omnium urbis et orbis ecclesiarum mater 
et caput. St. Paul's and St. Peter's mark the graves 
of apostles ; San Lorenzo the grave of an early mar- 
tyr; Sta. Maria Maggiore was built on a site revealed 
by a miracle; San Sebastiano and Santa Croce stand 

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above well-known catacombs. All of these date back 
to the century of Constantine — the Fourth — that is, 
in their original structures. 

If Constantine, first Christian emperor, founder of 
churches in west and east, is not a familiar figure on 
your historical chart, put him down as five hundred 
years earlier than Charlemagne, reigning during the 
first third of the three hundreds ; and remember his 
mother, St. Helena, whom we first came across as a 
collector of relics when we were talking about the 
bones of the three kings in Cologne. 

The St. Peter's of Constantine, in which Charle- 
magne and many succeeding emperors received their 
crowns, was a five-aisled basilica, and having fallen 
into decay, it was replaced in the fifteenth and six- 
teenth centuries by the present Renaissance struc- 
ture. Under various popes, various architects and 
many changes of plan, it came to its present form. 
The dome was early decided upon as a distinctive 
feature, and it was the pride of Michael Angelo to 
"lift the Pantheon in air," to reproduce Brunelles- 
chi's dome of Florence by "a sister, larger, per- 
haps, but not more beautiful." But it was a con- 
stantly disputed point whether it was better to set 
this dome upon a Greek cross — that is, of four equal 
arms — or upon a Latin cross, which would make the 
nave twice as long as choir or transepts. Bramante, 
and after him Michael Angelo, urged the Greek cross, 
that by this means the entering worshiper might find 
himself at once looking up to the vast dome and feel- 
ing its dominating power; but other architects urged 
the advantage of the great size of the longer nave, 
desiring to build the largest church of Christendom; 
and perhaps they had a little dislike that anything 
called Greek should take precedence over the Latin; 
however it was, the final architects were directed to 

483 



'EIGHT LANDS IN 



advance the nave to its present point and add to it a 
spacious portico ; as a result of which one approaching 
the church from in front finds the dome dropping out 
of sight behind the huge fagade — a most disappointing 
sensation after having learned to look for it from 
every vantage point of the city. Except for this, what 
better approach could one desire than by the huge 
encircling colonnades that lead in shadow past the 
scorching piazza, the splashing fountains, and the 
great obelisk? Four rows of columns in each colon- 
nade, and every one an ornament to its race ; above 
them an entablature adorned with marble saints ; 
through this approach we walked a quarter of a mile 
this morning, coming slowly to the great steps, remem- 
bering how yonder obelisk had stood upon the spina 
or central wall of Nero's circus, just outside these pil- 
lars, during those butchering sports that were his 
delight ; an uninscribed obelisk, which is a rare thing ; 
no tales of Egyptian Pharoahs, nor of Caligula and 
Nero; no record of the emperors who have walked 
new-crowned in its shadow. If a simple, bloodless 
story might for once be carved upon such a milepost 
of the ages it would be a pretty thing to read there 
the tale of the hosts that stood silent when it was being 
set up on this new site ; of the awful hush while ma- 
chinery pulled in vain to draw it upright on its ped- 
estal; of the sailor who risked his life by shouting, 
"Wet the ropes" — those were days when death pen- 
alties were flung around recklessly ; of the success that 
followed his wise advise, and the prize bestowed upon 
him besides — whatever boon he might ask ; to which 
he responded with the modest request that to his 
native village the privilege should be granted of pro- 
viding the palm branches for St. Peter's on every 
year's Palm Sunday. So near the boundaries of 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



Nero's circus, blank obelisk, you have at least one 
untarnished memory. 

That St. Peter's, of all churches, should be the one 
to face the east, is a constant wonder, but it is also 
a strong argument in favor of its being what it has 
always claimed, the burial place of the Apostle. Here, 
just outside the bounds of the circus, a church or 
chapel has stood from time immemorial, claiming to 
be the burial place of the Apostle Peter. Here Con- 
stantine so located his beautiful basilica that the 
sacred grave should lie under its altar. Here Pope 
Nicholas V began his great new church, enclosing 
with its choir and transepts those of its predecessor; 
and here, for many centuries, the devout have lifted 
up thanksgiving for the life and death of the Galilean 
fisherman. 

But we have reached the spacious flight of steps, 
the five outer doors, the entrance portico with St. 
Peter in his little ship in ancient mosaic above our 
heads, before us are the five immense inner doors, the 
Porta Santa at the right, walled up since 1900, till 
another jubilee year shall come ; the central one repro- 
ducing the bronze doors of the Florence Baptistery. 
These are the inlaid marble floors of the great interior, 
this the porphyry slab on which emperors were 
crowned; away off yonder we can espy the sitting 
statue of St. Peter, where worshipers reach up to kiss 
his feet ; yes — we are certainly inside the greatest of 
naves, and all the little men and women look small 
and far away in comparison with the colossal saints 
that stand in colossal niches against all these colossal 
columns, My Lady in Blue says that St. Peter's is all 
that it has claimed to be. My Lady Persistent says 
that the vastness, the color, the richness are altogether 
satisfying. We wander about from aisle to transept, 

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from the marble steps that lead down to the grave 
below to the twisted columns of bronze and gold over 
the high altar; we spell out the frieze in mosaics that 
runs about the dome, "Tu es Petrus," etc., we wonder 
at the choice paintings on the panels of each pier — 
copies of Raphael's Transfiguration and other master- 
pieces reproduced in mosaic ; we pace off quietly the 
diameter of the dome to make ourselves believe that 
it is 138 feet across, and that it rises four hundred feet 
above our heads ; we walk all the way around one of 
the four central piers that support it in an attempt to 
realize that it is as large as neighbor Jenkins' house 
at home — sixty feet on each side ; yes, inside that one 
pillar could stretch out his double parlors, central 
hall, dining room and library ; last of all, we ask our- 
selves if it is true that the largest ship afloat could 
be housed in this interior and its main mast scarcely 
overtop the bronze baldachino ; that the square of St. 
Mark's does not occupy so much ground space; in 
fact, that this whole church is just as great and glo- 
rious as heart of man could desire. Did you ever 
read Mme. de Stael's description in Corinne, and 
how the church has a climate of its own, never warm 
in summer nor cold in winter? It has, I admit, the 
weakness of all Renaissance buildings — the perfect 
proportions which are its pride are also its undoing. 
The height is immense, like the width and the length ; 
the architraves and gables correspond ; even the saints 
and cherubs must be more than colossal. Consequently 
what possible standard of comparison remains, unless 
it be a few hundred of us little mortals? In a Gothic 
portal you can guess at its vastness from the number 
of life-size saints that it shelters ; but on a Renais- 
sance front one Goliath of a statue in a cave of a 
niche makes you half believe the whole thing to be 
ordinary. Wouldn't you rather, on the whole, be one 

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of a host of small saints in the adorning of the great 
temple, than to be one huge and lonely archangel, 
dwarfing the whole structure by the size of your 
wings? Well, those are the feelings of some honest 
people about the Renaissance in church architecture; 
and if they seem to you intolerably heretical, let them 
alone. 

From St. Peter's we went around to the back door 
for admission to the Vatican museum. The Vatican 
Palace is to St. Peter's what the rectory at home is 
to the church ; but why at all times its best show 
rooms for sculpture must be reached from the rear, 
or why, in this particular month of August, the pic- 
ture galleries as well may not be entered from their 
usual nights of endless steps, but must be sought out 
through a labyrinth of backdoor corridors, the Rev- 
erend Resident of the Vatican may know, but I do not. 

Evidently a half mile of unshaded pavement on foot 
could not be thought of, and so the line of cab drivers 
knew ; they could hardly believe their eager eyes when 
our leader beckoned two of them to come to our help. 
We were their prey then, and an hour later at our 
return, and they used on us all the cunning, extortion- 
ist tricks that lurk in cabmen's caps and develop in 
burning suns. The galleries, too ; they had, alas ! a 
climate of their own — that climate that warms in sum- 
mer and cools in winter, but never, never, by any mis- 
take of caretaking custodians, admits a breath of fresh 
air. If you should feel at the end of the glorious 
halls of sculpture as we did all the way through, I 
would not blame you for confounding Laocoon with 
Ariadne and the Olympian Zeus with Canova's Box- 
ers. But take a day when you are quite fresh, carry 
some vials of double oxygen with you, and learn to 
know all the white beauties — Amazons and Cupids, 
Vestas and Minervas, prancing chariot steeds and 

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mourning figures pacing about the sarcophagi; the 
hall of animals, too, and the portrait busts; athletes 
and warriors, Muses and Apollo from Olympus, and 
quiet classic authors in their study chairs. 

If you are wise you will choose another day for the 
Sistine Chapel, with its faded frescoes, the Stanze 
adorned by Raphael with great allegorical paintings, 
and the picture gallery well stocked with easel pic- 
tures and altar pieces, and leading to the room of 
rooms where stands Raphael's Transfiguration. This 
Christ, uplifted, by the vision of the Father, above 
the clouds of this world and above the worshiping 
Moses and Elias and the dazzled three who have ac- 
companied Him to the mount, the animated group of 
disciples down below in the foreground, eager to heal 
the world's woes and unequal to their task ; the hands 
that point upward to their helper and ours ; what is it 
all but an epitome of the Christian faith? A noble 
swan song for the artist who died so young ; the paint 
having hardly dried before the great altar piece was 
carried in his funeral procession. 

All of these rooms will repay you for a careful 
study. Don't be discouraged if at first glance they 
disappoint you. Even your best friends don't always 
look as attractive as you know them to be; and pic- 
tures depend much upon light, surroundings, and the 
state of the spectator. Frescoes are hard to enjoy on 
a dull day; easel pictures are always at their worst 
when crowded in among a hundred others of con- 
trasted colors and themes. To know a painting you 
must give your time and thought to it; and all that 
we could do to-day was to learn what there was to be 
learned. 

Our pilgrimage has not extended to all of the seven 
churches, but we have a pretty good idea where they 
lie, all outside the walls except Santa Maria Maggiore, 

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which is on the summit of the Esquiline, and St. John 
Lateran, farther to the southeast near the wall. 
Of the interior of Sta. Maria Maggiore it is easy to 
carry a mental picture, because it is such a perfect 
specimen of the old basilica, with two rows of pol- 
ished pillars, a rich apse in the rear, and a coffered 
ceiling covered with the first gold brought from South 
America to Spain, a thank offering from Ferdinand 
and Isabella. The name, Saint Mary Major, implies 
what is true that it is the largest of the thirty-nine 
Roman churches dedicated to the Virgin ; but its other 
names — St. Mary of the Snows, St. Mary of the Man- 
ger, and the Basilica of Liberius, with their attend- 
ant legends, I leave you to look out by yourselves, 
because some one looking over my shoulder declares 
that this letter is growing unconscionably long. St. 
John Lateran was once a basilica, too, and a mighty 




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one with double aisles; but in a restoration of the 
Renaissance period the architects deliberately enclosed 
its chaste pillars in paneled piers, turned its ceiling 
and ornaments into those suitable to a Renaissance 
church, and erected a fagade of colossal pillars, colos- 
sal gable and cornice, and colossal saints above — Re- 
naissance at its best. 

But of all these five it is St. Paul's Outside the 
Walls that always is more beautiful than one can re- 
member or imagine. No doubt has ever been cast 
upon the traditional site of St. Paul's execution and 
burial, and none of us could be left behind on the 
afternoon excursion by tram to this church on the 
Campagna. The sunset lights were beginning to grow 
golden above the heavy walls that border the road, and 
behind the little inns and shops and rustic homes; the 
contadini coming back from a day in the city with their 
untiring donkeys and patient oxen; the women with 
white kerchiefs folded over their hair; the curly- 
headed, big-eyed children, all ready to furnish an art- 
ist with cupids or angels — made pretty pictures as we 
passed ; and it was pleasant to think of the worn body 
of the great Apostle laid to rest in country space and 
quiet. But why should this great church be built and 
rebuilt, and adorned more and more so far from wor- 
shipers? This was our practical, twentieth century 
question. And what would you do, then, to mark the 
grave of the greatest man of all Christendom ? Where 
devout friends long cherished a little oratory, and 
splendor-loving Constantine erected this basilica, you 
would, perhaps, let the old mosaics fall into ruin, use 
the pillars for some practical orphan asylum, and erect 
a granite slab to mark the grave ? Well, not so do the 
worshipers who buy alabaster boxes. And perhaps 
we will reserve judgment till we have entered. This 
pillared porch at the north transept is none too beau- 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



tiful, at least, and the fagade to the west, facing the 
river, and being finished in an atrium, will scarcely 
rival the colonnades and arcades that once extended 
all the way to the city walls. Entering the transept 
we find ourselves in the midst of that satisfying rich- 
ness that comes from colored marbles and mosaics 
well arranged and so spaced as to give a feeling of 
rest and largeness. As we advance to look more 
closely we are suddenly aware that we are not view- 
ing the church at all, that all this is but apse and 
transepts, and that the great nave and double aisles 
shining from the sunset lights above, reflecting from 
the polished mosaics underfoot, is reaching out at our 
right, a forest of granite columns, and above them 
popes of all the ages in the coloring of their pontifical 
robes, portrait after portrait in fine mosaic all up and 
down the nave and aisles and following on around 
the transepts. Can you think of a more glorious tomb 
to erect to Saint Paul — pillars in the house of God, 
granite from the Simplon, alabaster from Egypt, mal- 
achite from Russia, and all gifts of veneration? Por- 
traits of great men wrought each by adding stone to 
stone with care and taste and deftness? Well, if any 
of you feel that this is doing too much for the man 
who has built sanctuaries, polished pillars, and set 
precious stones for all Christendom, or if you think 
that perhaps Paul the Protagonist, who ran with pa- 
tience the great race set before him, would think this 
an unbecoming tribute from the lesser athletes in his 
train, I can tell you for your relief that the engineers 
of the new canal which is to make Rome a seaport 
propose to have it join the Tiber near the Church of 
St. Paul ; and traffic may again turn so steadily this 
way that great St. Paul's Outside the Walls will be 
needed as a daily meeting house, as well as for a tomb 
for the Apostle. 

49 1 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



These five patriarchal churches are presided over by- 
pope or cardinals, and have each its jubilee door, 
which is opened only on jubilee years — once in a half 
or quarter century. To wall up a door for the sake 
of tearing down the mortar once in twenty-five years, 
especially when three or four other doors are in con- 
stant use at its side, seems to some of us as inex- 
plicable as a great church in a wilderness ; but perhaps 
if we should, have a chance some day to be present at 
the ceremony where the call of a cardinal, "Open up 
to me the Gates of Righteousness," had its response 
from the hammers of the masons and the shouts of 
the people, we might see more in it. We'll hold our 
decision in abeyance. 

And now there remains for us to climb the Cap- 
itoline Hill by the broad footpath slope, with Marcus 
Aurelius on his gallant steed at the top, and the wolf's 
den and little growling cubs in the park at the left; 
to look in at its two wonderful collections of Satyrs 
and Amazons, dying Gauls and Venuses, portrait busts 
of emperors, and the old, old statue of the wolf with 
Romulus and Remus, that have been waiting for us 
all these years. When we have also climbed the 
Spanish staircase at the other end of the city and seen 
the view of St. Peter's from the park on the Pincian 
Hill, when we have visited the Borghese gardens just 
beyond the Porta del Popolo, with their splendid col- 
lections of statuary and paintings, and their groves of 
live oaks and pines ; when we have had a look at 
Michael Angelo's Moses in the Church of San Pietro 
in Vincoli, and at the Mamertine Prisons under the 
Capitol, we shall be ready to drop our little coins into 
the Fountain of Trevi and say, as the Italians do, "a. 
revederla" — "till I see you again." 

But if you reproach us with some dozens of unseen 
sights we shall take it meekly. If you ask why we 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



have never mentioned the abounding fountains all 
over the city, the water in plenty for cooling the 
streets even through dry weather, the admirable Ro- 
man custom of closing shops from twelve to two 
through the heated term, and of swinging awnings 
down to the ground over the sidewalks of the shop- 
ping districts, and why we have not even put down 
the name of Sunday nor told you where we went to 
church — to all these questions we shall not take time 
to give you a reply; but we shall beg of you, when 
you do better than we, to be sure to take a day for 
Tivoli, summer resort of the ancient aristocracy, 
lovely home of rocks and temples and fountains. 

You've seen composite photographs made of an 
array of different faces photographed successively 
upon one plate. Rome is to us a succession of faces 
quite beyond our power of reducing to a simple type. 
We knew it to be great, and it is greater than we 
knew. Here is the composite, or the slightest hint of 
the composite that goes with us as we take train to 
Naples. 

Good night, and good rest after strenuous days. 

M. 

A mighty lion crouched beside the Tiber 
And laid his pazu upon the broad champagne, 
Which burst in myriad flowers beneath his sovereign 
eye. 

A queen built palaces upon her seven hills, 
And trailed her silks along their marble floors. 
Smiling on barbarous nations cringing at her gates. 

A shouting crowd thronged up the Sacred Way, 
Legions and eagles, kings and galley slaves, 
To climb the Capitol Hill and offer spoils to Jove. 

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Two athletes wrestled for a crown of state 
Until they drenched the streets with sweat and 
gore, 
Hurling dozmi marble gods and pillars of old Nile. 

A train of saints with garments dyed in blood, 
'Twixt caves of earth and dens of savage beasts, 
Saw Heaven's gates unfold and chanting entered in. 

A pope enthroned himself in Peter's chair, 
Hung crimson banners in his gilded dome, 
And dropped his ban and blessing on a kneeling world. 

A peasant gathered grapes from ruined villas, 
And lamps and carvings from an emperor's grave, 
To sell to curious strangers in the market place. 

Old Rome, old Rome, old Rome, 



494 



EIGHT WEEKS 



LIII— ON THE HOME STRETCH. 




lirt tfp Camjggjia- 



En Route to Naples. 

Tuesday, Aug. 24. 

"Praise day at night, and life at the end," saith the 
old English proverb, and we, beloved, packing our 
suit-cases for the last continental journey, feel war- 
ranted in writing down our seven Beatitudes. 

1. Blessed be the Itinerary Man, who has never 
routed us out to take an early train, has never failed 
of correct time tables, and has never missed of advis- 
ing hotels of our intended arrival. 

2. Blessed be those twenty-five hotels that have fur- 
nished us with excellent beds, excellent meals, and 
attentive service. We feel inclined even to pardon 
their hen's-feather and wool pillows, though still giv- 

495 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



ing thanks that on the western continent the race of 
geese has not run out. 

3. Blessed be the railways, steamboats, diligences 
and auto-buses by the score and score, that have 
roared and bounced and shaken us safely to our many 
goals ; and may their din and agitation steadily decline 
and their ventilation take on increase of vigor. 

4. As the keystone of our arch — Blessed be that 
loving Providence that has enriched our lives by these 
two months of Old World travel. 

5. Blessed be the kindly people of seven lands who 
have treated us as their kindred, with courtesy, hon- 
esty, and interest in our welfare; and may we and 
ours be half as thoughtful for the strangers within 
our gates. 

6. Blessed be the weather — king's weather, queen's 
weather, president's weather — that has never spoiled 
for us one important day, nor seriously incommoded 
any journey. 

7. Blessed be You and blessed be We — You who 
have provided us with the choicest and most longed 
for possession of our journey — our home letters ; and 
We — though we say it who should not — who have 
proved good travelers and good friends. May you 
follow our example on that happy day when you fol- 
low in our footprints. 

About here there are several pairs of eyes, a little 
misty, looking out for a last sight of St. Peter's ; and 
first there comes up close beside us the noble arches 
of the Claudian and Marcian Aqueducts, which have 
been water bearers for Rome since before the Chris- 
tian era. For more than fifty miles a refreshing flood 
still flows down from the Sabine Mountains to burst 
into beauty in the fountain of our hotel piazza. Those 
are the Sabine Mountains at our left — a spur of the 
Apennines, and we shall soon pass between them and 

496 



EIGHT WEEKS 



the volcanic Alban Mountains at our right. In these 
last lie those gems of crater lakes, Albano and Nemi, 
which you are to see when you come. Further on we 
pass Palestrina, high on its airy hill — Roman Preneste 
— with a medieval castle built in the arms of a vast, 
semi-circular temple of Fortune. This little, dirty 
town could tell you big tales, from the times of the 
Cyclopean stones in its ancient walk, to the days of 
its sixteenth-century son, Giovanni of Palestrina, com- 
poser and director of the choir of St. Peter's. 

Now you may rest your brains for an hour or two 
till we come to Monte Cassino, and send your thoughts 
wool-gathering over aqueducts and fallen temples, and 
church choirs; to which, if you add our own recent 
beatitudes, I should not wonder to hear you saying 
over that little rhyme that My Lady of the Veil some- 
times brings out from her repertoire: 

"Little birds sit on the telegraph wires 

And chitter and flitter, and fold their wings; 

Perhaps they think that for them and their sires 
Stretched always on purpose those wonderful 
strings. 

And perhaps the Thought that the world inspires 
Did plan for the birds among other things." 

And why must we wake from our dreams to look 
at that abrupt hill of Monte Cassino, with some very 
solid buildings on its crest, not to be compared for 
picturesqueness with a dozen other battlemented cas- 
tles we have passed? 

Because here the great St. Benedict founded the 
first great convent of Christendom as a cradle and 
home for the order of monks which he had instituted. 
St. Francis and St. Dominic, of the twelfth and thir- 
teenth centuries, we learned to know in Florence; 

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and we have passed near the graves of both of them — 
St. Dominic in Bologna, and St. Francis in Assisi. 
But seven hundred years before, a little antedating 
the coming of St. Augustine to England, St. Benedict 
had decided that there was better work for ardent 
souls than living in hermitages ; had founded the order 
called by his name, an order bound to the three vows 
of poverty, chastity and obedience, and had given 
them their work of advancing agriculture as well as 
learning. Look him up in your legends of the monas- 
tic orders, or your encyclopedia — his sacred cave 
at Subiaco; his cooperation with his sister, Sta. Sco- 
lastica, in founding her convent for women ; their last 
meeting for prayer during the thunder storm, and 
their burial, only a few days apart, in the crypt of this 
convent. Then, if you are not in terror of getting 
two saints mixed, bring Thomas Aquinas down here, 
just after the days of our Saints Francis and Dominic 
— bring him from a princely castle and an imperial 
family, near Aquino, which we passed while you were 
asleep, and give him his education in this monastic 
school. A silent, shy lad he, whom the boys nick- 
named Bos, Bovis — the Ox. But one of his teachers 
says that this Ox will yet make Europe listen to his 
words. And so it proves; for learning and for char- 
acter he has long been known as the Pater Angelicus. 
He is associated with no home of his own because he 
was always needed at the right hand of the pope — in 
Rome or Orvieto or some other papal city ; and in this 
twentieth century Pope Pius X quotes his words as 
authority. Do you remember how we saw St. Thomas 
Aquinas sitting on high above all the Christian virtues 
in the Spanish chapel in Florence? 

Now you may go on with your nap, if you choose, 
while I have a talk with our eight Suit-cases. This is 
positively the last appearance of those brave fellow- 

498 



EIGHT WEEKS 



travelers. Not one of them has called for more than 
slight repairs, not one has refused to close and clasp, 
and to lie level and respectable in the overhead racks. 
As we give them a chance to speak for themselves on 
this home stretch they favor us with the following 
report of utilities and cumbrances: 

"Not much use, mesdames, for that spic-span new 
alarm clock, set only once during the journey, and 
then refusing to tinkle. Very little call for that small 
flatiron; no time for pressing out wrinkles; just broke 
the bottle of alcohol in the end and soaked all its 
neighbors, That fascinating case of scissors wasn't 
much more useful than any twenty-five cent pair, and 
got pretty badly worn in the packing. The shoe pol- 
ish just gave a chance to use those spare moments 
that didn't exist, and defrauded the 'boots' of his per- 
quisites. We have our doubts about somebody's rug; 
we never saw it do any good except wrap around a 
pillow and make a light package heavy. Hot-water 
bag and medicine cases and mustard pastes? Yes, 
they come handy once in a while, and soothed your 
spirits enough to pay for their carriage. Stationery? 
The ink and pens were in constant use ; but paper we 
noticed you liked to take from the hotels, and could 
always get it. Note books and guide books? You 
never had too many of either till it came to the car- 
rying, and then, alas ! The little tea ball and tea, with 
lemons and some lumps of sugar looked silly for peo- 
ple having "pension" everywhere ; but we were sur- 
prised to see how often they cheered up fainting spir- 
its. Your silver spoons, fruit knives and aluminum 
cups were light to carry and often in demand; and 
we think those two or three candles occasionally 
came into play. Your tiny sewing cases just made us 
envious, they were so like us reduced to a finer pat- 
tern. Your map of Europe? No, you never had it, 

499 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



but you wished you had; and that was more reason- 
able than that cyclopedia and dictionary that one of 
you was always longing for. The tube of paste went 
into a decline from much lending, and so did the ball 
of twine. Your overshoes in their little black bags 
lay unused almost all the summer; but it might have 
been just the opposite if Mother Nature had wept 
instead of smiling. Your rain-cloaks were oftener pat- 
ronized, for they could be wraps or dressing gowns 
on occasion. We never heard any of you regret hav- 
ing brought leggings and under jackets, although they 
were badly neglected in Italy ; there the thin white 
shirtwaists came to the front that we had carried so 
long without mussing. We were awfully careful of 
your Sunday silks, besides, for we could see that you 
felt wonderfully set up when you put them on, though 
nobody else discovered the change. As for the under- 
clothing, you did not need quite all you took along, 
because you found laundresses so clever; but in gen- 
eral you packed pretty well ; and all the advice we can 
give for another time is to have all the light and little 
bags your hearts desire, and of different colors, so as 
to know at a glance which is handkerchiefs and which 
time tables. But when it comes to money bags, put a 
little less bulk into the bag and considerable more into 
the money." 

And after this long speech our gentlemen felt so 
vain that they could hardly be kept on their shelves, 
and one did leap recklessly down into our midst, to 
the discomfiture of hats, knees and shoulders. 

You would like, perhaps, to know our own opinion 
of our hand baggage after two months' travel. For 
rapid journeys like our own we found it wholly ade- 
quate, and demanding far less time, trouble and ex- 
pense than trunks would have done. It was too ^eavy 
for us to handle, but with a porter secured to put it 

500 



EIGHT WEEKS 



aboard, it was never objected to as overweight. It 
must be put upon the racks ; that was the only stipula- 
tion. 

I think I see the double-topped peak of Vesuvius at 
last, which the cheery, communicative German of the 
savant type has been pointing out for a half hour past. 

"See Naples and die," saith the proverb, which few 
people desire to follow ; but with us it is "See Naples 
and part" ; for the large majority set sail on Saturday 
for home, and a few of us stay sadly, happily behind. 
For the two months of the summer our only regret 
has been that we could not bring our home and all 
you best friends with us; and now we'll be just regret- 
ting the opposite thing — that we can't take Europe 
back with us. Never a joy that can't find some loop- 
hole for a sorrow ; and mostly the reverse is also true. 
That we may use the loopholes well is a reasonable 
good night wish as we glide into the great city of 
southern Italy. 

Sincerely, 

M. 



50i 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



LIV— SEE NAPLES AND DIE. 




AMSbU 

QUao. lb 

Did you ever hear of a great man who came from 
the south of Italy? Or any great movement — except 
it be the eruptions of Vesuvius and the earthquakes of 
Sicily ? To be sure, I don't wish to get into a quarrel 
with the people of the land, and just at the end of our 
journey; but I look in vain for any such greatness. 
Is it the fault of the climate, enervating, easy of pro- 
duction in the necessities of life? or of the constantly 
changing dynasties that have discouraged all begin- 
nings of national existence? Perhaps a little of both, 
and partly, too, because this end of the boot lies so 
exposed to many seas and so attractive that it can 
hardly escape a call from every power that passes by. 

In the years of Greek supremacy so many of that 
nation settled here that the land was known as Magna 
Grecia; and after it had been conquered by the Ro- 

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EIGHT WEEKS 



mans in the third century B. C, the Greek language 
and customs still prevailed. After the fall of Rome 
it was the battleground for Goths and Lombards, 
Greeks and Moors. Then came the Normans, about 
the time that they were conquering England, Robert 
and Rogers Guiscard being as well known here as 
William the Norman in Great Britain. Next followed 
Hohenstauffens, and the House of Anjou, with the 
awful massacre of their masters in Sicily, known as 
the Sicilian Vespers (1282) ; and after this Spanish 
viceroys and Austrian viceroys, the rule of Spanish 
Bourbons over the "Two Sicilies," Napoleon and his 
brother and brother-in-law, more Bourbons, and then, 
at last, the one hero for their salvation — Garibaldi, 
who landed in Sicily with his one thousand "red 
shirts" in i860, was greeted with acclamation, led a 
victorious march to the north, at Naples joined Victor 
Emanuel and his Piedmontese troops, and with them 
soon won Naples for the new kingdom of Italy. I 
wonder whether you find a growing pleasure, in each 
Italian city we visit, in bringing its history up to that 
triumphant day when it joins with the other long di- 
vided members of the family in the new household 
of the kingdom of Italy. Semi-centennials are pre- 
vailing in these days, and they make us glad, like the 
anniversaries of our own country. 

As there are few great men or deeds to study here, 
so there are few works of art to admire outside those 
of the National Museum. We can give ourselves 
mostly to the beauties of Nature, which are not few. 
Here lies this blue sea, dreaming, sparkling, roaring 
according to the mastery of the elements ; little Capri, 
with its double crest floating afar; yonder is Ve- 
suvius beyond the sickle of the crowded city, an 
imaginary or faintly discerned thread of smoke rising 
from its crater; here rise the trees of the Villa Na- 

503 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



zionale, which is the city park ; and off yonder, hidden 
by our hotel walls, are the hillsides of Vomero and 
Posilippo, with funiculars and long winding tram 
lines leading to their tops. For Naples is built on 
steep slopes, and many of the narrower streets change 
from walking to climbing, and from climbing to going 
upstairs. The main streets of the business centre are 
level, and often broad, with parks and tree-shaded 
promenades to make them lovely; and these are well 
supplied with tram lines. But passing through one 
of the older streets, as, for example, the Via Roma, 
formerly Via Toledo, to the National Museum, you 
cross a multitude of little alleys, as one might say, 
narrow, steep of ascent or descent, gloomy by nature, 
but made gay by flowers offered for sale, or by the 
parti-colored clothing hung from windows — a con- 
tinuous series of fascinating vistas. 

The life in these streets is also a constant entertain- 
ment. Such decorated donkeys — not with gala tas- 
sels as in Rome, but with a bunch of flowers, a green 
branch, or a ribbon, as though all days were holidays ; 
and such harnessing together of beasts of various 
kinds — horses and donkeys, cows and donkeys, don- 
keys big and little, paired as if the first object were 
to be ridiculous, with harnesses of every description, 
from the smart, broad bits that are not bits at all, but 
a kind of eyeglass frame clapped over a horse's nose, 
to a motley collection of ropes and straps. Apparently 
fashion and convention stand in no person's way when 
he or she has a load to convey through the streets. 

A longer stay would have acquainted us with dis- 
tinct types of street venders, many of whom are splen- 
did artists' models ; but the most attractive sights are 
the young men or women carrying brimming baskets 
of grapes upon their heads, the lining of green leaves 
and the overflowing clusters turning all these hand- 

504 



EIGHT WEEKS 



some young people into Bacchuses and Hebes. The 
really poor, however, the beggars and tramps, 
are a sight to make one look the other way. Not that 
there seems to be real distress among them, but that 
their whole attitude is one of being down in the slums 
to stay. Never a street without garbage piles waiting 
for collection, never a church door without its beg- 




gars, never a ride on a tram without a conductor test- 
ing coins with his teeth to find which are bad silver. 
And the bassi! Do you know what a "basso" is? A 
ground floor dwelling of one room, or possibly two, 
level with the street, and lighted and aired entirely 
from its one big door. This is the regular way of 
making ground floors pay. Sometimes these bassi are 
small shops, fitted neatly with a narrow door and 

505 



EIGHT LANDS IN 




two windows ; sometimes they are workshops and 
small manufactories ; but most of the time they are 
the homes of the poor. Now I am in a half a dozen 
minds what to say about them. Mostly they make me 
weep, but perhaps they should make me laugh, or else 
smile with pleasure. Always the family is as near the 
door as possible, or spilling over into the street ; their 
piazza is so much of the stone sidewalk as they venture 
to appropriate. A cobbler's bench, a laundress's iron- 
ing board, the family supper table, are pulled into the 
precious light ; almost always a blanket or a curtain is 
at the door to drop when desired; not far back a 
bureau with a mirror, and one or two beds, often 
nicely spread ; beyond that curiosity may not pene- 
trate ; only we know that there is no chance for a ray 
of light or breath of air from the rear. Pretty girls 
in smart blouse waists appear from these one-roomed 
dens ; well dressed men turn in at them, admirers lin- 
ger outside as though they loved to be near some- 
body's home. Perhaps they are the Italian idea of 
city cottages, and all my sympathy is wasted; but I 
admit to breathing freer when I am away from the 
sight of them. I think we agree with the coachman 
who took us a long drive by the shore to the west, and 
back over Posilippo hill, where the roadsides are 

506 



EIGHT WEEKS 



continuous stone walls enclosing charming villas. He 
gave us clearly to understand that Naples was a lovely 
place for the rich, and as for the poor — the rich did 
not even take the trouble to think about them. 

Perhaps when Naples has been its own mistress for 
a while it will begin to care more for its lower classes, 
will get rid of its false coin, educate its little beggars, 
make more distinction between donkeys and men, and 
even teach its guides and cabmen ordinary honesty. 
The great network of tram lines is itself an educa- 
tion in that virtue; for see how many hundred con- 
ductors must every day make exact change, be polite 
without gratuities, and test every coin that goes 
through their hands. In all the regular tradesmen, 
too, even the small venders, we have seen no attempt 
to have double prices or to carry on any bargaining; 
and that is certainly an advance over their reputation 
of years ago. 

Now, having at the outset made a clean sweep of 
all the Neapolitan offenses, let us turn our eyes to 
that loveliness that superabounds. Whether you drive 
over the Posilippo hill, where Roman patricians used 
to build their villas and throw off care as this Greek 
name implies (a pause from care), or whether you 
follow the west coast out to Capo, and further to 
Pozzuoli and Baya, you have everywhere the azure of 
the Mediterranean, the turquoise, the lapis lazuli, as 
sun and clouds may decree, for background to clam- 
bering vines, plastered country houses and garden 
walls decked just now with rows of scarlet plates 
which, seen nearby, prove to be tomato jam set in 
the sun to dry. And the colors of man's making — 
the plaster finishing of the houses — they are always 
some variation on Pozzuoli buff or Pompeiian red, 
with marble in its various stages, from white to gray 
for sills and casings. Both this buff and this red lend 

507 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

themselves extremely well to the fading of old age; 
any house that is not attractive from freshness is fas- 
cinating from its streaks of changing tints — such 
creams and terra cottas and faded rose, with the 
green of moss growth in shady places, and the transi- 
tion from brick to umber in the tiled roofs! Just the 
color of Neapolitan houses is a delight to one's eyes. 
And in this blue sea that is ever at hand there is 
always an island or a cape more pearly than the last, 
more precipitously surprising, and a boat coming in 
or a fisherman on the shore, and a sound of music 
here and there to make the enchantment complete. 

Around this west point, where your machine can 
take you in a summer's afternoon, gather all the 
stories of Vergil's tomb and Cape Misenus, Lake 
Avernus, and the Sibyl of Cumae, and the charms of 
scenery and the terrors of earthquake that belong to 
the islands fringing out to sea. If you skirt the coast 
east of Naples you are passing between Vesuvius and 
the Mediterranean by dead Herculaneum, by Torre 
del Greco built on lava streams, sending out every 
spring its fleet of boats for coral fisheries off the coasts 
of Africa, by Bosca Tre Case, trying to recover from 
its last overflow of lava, and by Pompeii, where you 
and we will stop together on the return of your ma- 
chine. Our machine is only cabs and trams and rail- 
way cars ; so we cannot accomplish quite so much, nor 
so independently as you will be able to do. If you 
wish to continue still further east there is Castella- 
mare, ancient Stabiae, where, at the time of the de- 
struction of Pompeii, Pliny had come from his fleet 
to watch the eruption and render help, and himself 
perished in the shower of ashes. It is not often one 
has an ancient event so graphically described by an 
eye witness as is the case here from the letters of the 
nephew Pliny. This was during the reign of the Em- 

508 



EIGHT WEEKS 




509 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



peror Titus, nine years after his destruction of Jeru- 
salem. From Castellamare your car begins on the 
drive par excellence, south to Sorento, around the 
cape and north over the hillsides to Amalfi, along the 
steep sides of Monte St. Angelo to landward, always 
the blue below, and Capri out to sea. You wind and 
climb up the long slopes, you dash through plastered 
villages with tiled roofs, you leave your conveyance 
long enough to climb the endless steps of the old 
Capuchin monastery against the rocks — now the hotel 
of Amalfi — to gather lemons from its pergola or take 
an excellent dinner on its terrace. You look up and 
down the staircase streets of Amalfi, and then you 
turn homeward over the heights of Ravello and Cava, 
having made such a "giro" — circular trip — as never 
you had in your life before. Have we done it, too? 
Oh, some questions are better never asked. We have 
been to Capri and Pompeii, and is not that glory 
enough for a three days' sojourn? 

For Capri it is just as well to take an out and out 
guide, agree upon an inclusive price, and then put 
care and fees aside. For, first, there are the shore- 
men who take you in small boats to the steamer ; then, 
when you reach the Blue Grotto, there is another bevy 
awaiting you to whom your party must be assigned 
by twos, taking account also of the size and seaworthi- 
ness of the boats ; and last, there are the cab drivers 
who carry you by twos and threes from Capri to Ana- 
capri; and when you have once seen an experienced 
Italian guide select from this motley array of old 
vehicles, driven single and double — arrange his price 
after a vociferous argument of fifteen minutes, all the 
tongues and fingers in motion at once — pack his ladies 
in and start the procession — you will not be anxious 
to take the job out of his hands. 

Yesterday was a glorious day for Capri, sunny and 

5io 



EIGHT WEEKS 



still, so that the water was at its bluest, and the two 
hours' boat ride a pleasure. Have you ever seen a 
laundress drop her bluing, a little at a time, into a 
tank of clear water till it turned to a color of summer 
skies? Well, My Lady of the Stars recalls that on 
the St. Lawrence, in anticipation of what we were to 
see in these journeyings, she made the fine generaliza- 
tion that, all the world over, water is water and sky is 
sky. But she takes it all back now, as she looks down 
into these waters from the steamboat deck. Wave by 
wave, it is as cerulean as if Laundress Nature had just 
poured in her dyes, and we exclaim to one another for 
wonder. Of course, there were little boys to dive for 
pennies where we first set forth, and venders of fresh- 
scooped corals, all wet and red and weedy — which 
have since dried to a gloomy brown and threaten to 
crumble in the packing; there were plenty of finished 
coral necklaces, and Neapolitan mosaics and shells ; 
there was the ship's orchestra of cabinet organ and 
violins, and singers of Santa Lucia, with copies of 
their songs for sale; there was even a dance by one 
gay old singer, who laughed at his own buxomness. 

5 1 * 



EIGHT LANDS IN 

So all was as it should have been, with pearly Capri 
ever changing shape and lifting its cliff higher and 
more rugged as we drew near. 

Some of our party protested against entrusting their 
lives to small boats and bandits bound for a minute 
black hole in a wall of rock. But tradition was against 
them, no sign of an oncoming storm to shut them 
into the cavern, and My Lady of the Guide Book had 
her way. On we sped toward our delight or our de- 
struction, each couple alarmingly unaware of the fate 
of the others; just enough waves to make us wonder 
whether we should be seasick. Two boats have shot 
safely out of sight before us. "Lie low, lie low, Sig- 
nore," calls the rower. He grasps the guiding rope 
above our heads to hold our boat down as our par- 
ticular billow wafts us in — and here we are in a part 
of Fairyland never seen before, the blue of the waters 
now become the blue of low-arched grotto walls, a 
great light shining in at the tiny entrance, and silver 
edges fringing every wavelet and every falling drop. 

It was only ten minutes of bewitching beauty, ten 
minutes never to be forgotten; and then we slid out 
as we had slidden in, and were safely returned to our 
steamer by our bandit crew, and safely landed at the 
Capri docks. This pearl of the Mediterranean, for 
which I can find no other descriptive word, is surely 
a pearl in the rough at near hand. Two great sum- 
mits rise precipitously from the waves — that nearest 
to the mainland almost 1,000 feet in sheer precipice, 
that to the west nearly twice as high. On the saddle 
between the two lies Capri, and on the slopes of the 
further peak, much higher above the sea, Anacapri. 

The beauty of this seagirt mountain did not escape 
the Romans who had pleasure palaces at Naples, and 
here the Emperor Tiberius retired when he had exer- 
cised the zeal of a tyrant as long as he desired or con- 

512 



EIGHT WEEKS 



sidered safe, left his general, Sejanus, in charge at 
Rome, and set himself the pleasant task of building 
twelve palaces for residence in the twelve months of 
the year, and in making them as artistic and luxurious 
as he and his architects could devise. The historian 
Suetonius claims that his taste for cruelty had to be 
pampered, too, and that he utilized these steepest cliffs 
for the execution of his pet prisoners. We may hope 
that it was not so, and that the ruins at various points 
may merely add to our pleasure by their touch of age. 
This touch is like the flavors of some rare grapes. We 
find ourselves beginning to miss something superior 
when we are thrown back on modern sights. 

A good dinner at the Hotel Quisisana, the dramatic 
scene with the cabmen, described above, and our cabs 
are off in single file along a road of gradual ascent 
but very solid construction, the hilly island on one 
side, a tree-grown, steep descent to the sea on the 



513 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



other, and a parapet of stone to make all safe. In the 
side of the precipitous rock before us, where it drops 
hundreds of feet to the sea, our driver points out a 
little line against the sky and signifies in Italian that 
it is of especial interest to us. "Do you see where we 
are to go?" cries My Lady Bright Eyes, with a grim 
tone in her voice. "I think not, my dear; at least, I 
sincerely hope not." "Well, watch and see." Where- 
upon I considered how many people had probably 
traveled the new road to Anacapri since it was laid 
out, thirty years ago; how high and strong was the 
parapet, in case a balky horse should decide to back; 
how becoming white hairs would be to some of us, 
and how exciting if they should turn white in one 
day; and then I began looking at such of the 800 spe- 
cies of Capri's plants as grew on the up side of our 
road, and such occasional treetops as peeped above the 
parapet opposite. We talked about the weather and 
the view ; you hardly need the weather at all in these 
parts, views being such a staple of conversation. No 
one was ahead of us, and we durst not look back for 
fear of taking fright; but we heard the interested 
voices of our guide and My Lady Practical in our 
rear, and the frequent explosions of whips cracked in 
the high air, without which no Italian driver is happy, 
and, I dare say, no Italian horse. It seems to be a 
kind of "all right" between man and beast. And at 
the end of the scheduled half hour all was right, we 
were at the top of the cliff among the plastered houses 
that looked as though carved out of its substance ; the 
drivers were carrying on an animated argument ; some- 
thing wrong, or missing, or to be explained or set 
right. At the first pause we would ask if we might 
return by another road ; at the second we would inquire 
for the best point of view, and in which direction to 
explore the little town. But there was no pause. A 

514 



EIGHT WEEKS 



sudden whirling about of every driver before we could 
count how many of us had arrived, or laugh or sigh 
over our precipitous ascent; the descent began in re- 
verse order, and rattle, rumble, down we went at the 
peril of our four old vehicles — too much noise to ask 
or answer — in and out beside the great rock, with the 
flora now at our right and the blue depth at our left ; 
and never a pause till our four drew up triumphant 
in the little square of Capri with a full hour on our 
hands before the departure of the steamboat. 

Was it a scheme of revenge for too small fees 
allowed by our guide? Was it the meeting of a pre- 
vious engagement? Was it connivance with the men 
of the picture-postals and the women of the coral 
beads to throw us into their clutches ? We cannot say, 
nor can we tell you whether the wind always whistles 
over Anacapri and blows the dust in clouds but leaves 
the mosquitoes undisturbed, as some of its blackeners 
will have it; nor whether all of its streets and people 
look like artists' models as they did at Capri ; but we 
can report the corals at the Marina Grande beautiful 
in all shades from deep red to creamy white, and quite 
too cheap when one considers those poor people cut- 
ting and polishing them through the winter days ; 
also the grapes delicious and the picture postals not 
half so astounding as the truth. And when we stole 
a look at the mirror in the steamer cabin, we discov- 
ered no appreciable whitening of our hair. 

May you be as happy as we after riding upon your 
high places. 

M. 



515 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



LV— POMPEII. 



Naples, Friday, Aug. 2j. 

This morning we went to Pompeii. How different 
from the island and the grotto! After all the repre- 
sentations we had seen of this excavated city, we had 
no adequate idea of its deadness. "One hour, Signora, 
to see all this ! But the Forum and the temples alone 
require an hour. You will only have time for a little 
part of this side of the city; a great pity, Signora, not 
to give two hours at least." 




Imagine to yourself a whole city cut in two hori- 
zontally, so that nothing rises above the first story; 
every trace of woodwork gone, no glazing, no doors, 
no furniture ; but frescoes here and there upon the 

5i6 



EIGHT WEEKS 



walls, and always frescoes of gayety and dancing, 
cupids and wreaths and floating nymphs ; a rich dash 
of Pompeian red or Pozzuoli yellow now and again ; 
here an atrium with verandas opening upon it, a 
ruined fountain in the court, and flowers and vines 
planted by the hands of the modern showman; here a 




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op 



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kitchen hearth, a public laundry with tanks placed end 
to end; a row of stone mills like huge hour-glasses, 
and everywhere the streets as narrow as little lanes, 
the houses close upon them, the pavement stones so 

517 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



worn and uneven that it is a laborious undertaking to 
walk over them. My Lady Practical decides that upon 
the parting threshold of Europe she will show her- 
self a little indulgence and be carried about in a chair. 
The sun beats down unpityingly. A corpse of a city, 
a mummy of a city, kept all these centuries to show 
us how the people lived ; and the rich and the poor 
had no better common ground than now; the "bassi" 
looked very much like those of Naples, and the houses 
of the aristocracy were shut in to selfish courts of 
loveliness, like the high-walled gardens we drove 
among three days ago. But we saw no evidence of 
parks or shaded streets. I think the world has ad- 
vanced. 

The museums we had not time to enter; but in the 
National Museum of Naples we found a large depart- 
ment devoted to Pompeian frescoes and bits of fabric, 
household utensils, bronze statuettes, vases, some 
blackened benches and tables, crockery and glass, and 
even food ready for the baker or long dried since 
taken from his ovens. 

A most interesting and depressing part of Naples, 
this, these memorials, so concrete, of a great destruc- 
tion. No desire, on our part, to climb the cone of 
Vesuvius and look down into its Gehenna. The best 
we can do is to console ourselves with the Venuses 
and Hercules of the lower floor of this museum, and 
be thankful for undying Art, which has ever been 
striving toward the beautiful and the ideal. Many a 
time have we exclaimed with a sigh, in these swift- 
running weeks, "Art is long, but time is fleeting." 
Now we feel inclined to take a glad look at the new 
boulevards, at the Villa Nazionale, at the abounding 
statues, the trees, the flowering borders, and to con- 
sole ourselves with the thought that if time be fleeting, 
still Art is long. 

5i8 



EIGHT WEEKS 



We've had many a high day to record in our diaries, 
but to-morrow is to be, for a certain remnant of us, a 
very low day. And in anticipation I will betake me 
early to bed, leaving with you this rhyme about our 
last city : 

NAPLES. 

Blue, blue, blue, the waves of the inland deep, 
White, white, white, the houses that climb the 
steep ! 
Dark eyes shining, love locks twining, 
Soft Italian speech. 
Fishermen haggling, shouting; children laughing, 
pouting, 

Balconies out of reach. 

Soft, soft, soft, a column of smoke to the sky; 
Red, red, red the flames that smouldering lie. 
Isles among the billows, ruined Roman villas, 
Caves zvhere Sibyls divelt; 
Marble gods and heroes; courts where cruel Neros 
Loathsome sentence dealt. 

Dead, dead, dead, the cities that lie in the dust; 
Old, old, old, the bronzes blue with rust. 

Frescoes faintly glozving, raiment quaintly 
flowing, 
Colors that time defy. 
Vintage girls a-singing, convent bells a-ringing, 
See Naples ere you die! 



519 



EIGHT LANDS IN 



LVI— ON THE WHARF. 

Naples, Saturday, Aug. 28. 

Two lone figures on the wharf of an ocean liner 
waving and waving and waving, till the big ship turns 
a corner down the bay, and the answering figures on 
the deck become a bit of its great blackness. 

We gratefully wrote in our little text-books last 
night that Bible verse that we had hoarded up for 
this occasion: "They went forth to go into the land 
of Canaan, and into the land of Canaan they came" ; 
also some of Scribe Ezra's intimate sayings about "the 
good hand of my God upon me." But in my own 
especial book I have put down the names of two little 
Hebrew lads of three and four thousand years ago, to 
be my pages before and behind. At the very outset I 
wrote in June the name of little Gad, Jacob's seventh 
son ; and to-day I have brought up my rear guard 
with the grandson of old Eli, baby Ichabod. And if 
you don't happen to remember the appropriateness of 
these names, just look them up, as you have kindly 
done so many things before. Our suit-case Bible has 
fine print, and yours are better. 

I suppose we two shall turn to shop windows for an 
hour of consolation before applying ourselves to the 
problems of the future ; but having this brave fountain 
pen in hand brings before me another appalling reflec- 
tion. All of you, beloveds, what will you now do? 
Will you, too, go with the six to the happy homeland, 
and declare that for you that is the fairy realm of all 

520 



EIGHT WEEKS 



with fairy godmothers and fairy cherubs, and fairy 
spectacles that turn evil into good ? Or will you tarry 
a while with us to drink more draughts of history and 
art from this great vineland of Europe? If we had 
our way, you should never set foot on steamer deck 
till we were ready to go with you. But if you resolve 
to go, a "buon viaggio" to you, too, and "molte, molte 
grazie" for all the days you have traveled with us. 

Sincerely, 
M. 




THE END. 



521 



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